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THE WEDDING KING 


A TALE OF TO-DAY 



ROBERT BUCHANAN 

tf 


AUTHOR OF “the SHADOW OP THE SWORD,” “GOD AND 
THE MAN,” “ STORMY WATERS,” ETC. 





And what’s to me a ring o’ gold. 
That proves the written law ? 

A ring of aim’s around my heart 
That sadly breaks in twa 1 

Old Ballad. 



KEW YORK 

CASSELL PUBLISHma COMPANY 

♦ 

104 A 106 Fourth Avenue 


Copyright, 1891, by 
CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 


All rights reserved. 


V. 


•> 


THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS, 
RAHWAY, N. J. 


CONTENTS. 

CHA.PTER PAGE 

I. St. Peter’s Street, Westminster, . 1 

II. The Road to Ruin, .... 13 

III. A Thief in the Night, ... 23 

IV. The Cloud Breaks, .... 37 

V. Summer Days, 47 

VI. Mrs. Dartmouth, .... GO 

VII. Sir George, 73 

VIII. Jake Owen, 86 

IX. - Mr. Ezra Stokes, .97 

X. After Seven Years, . . . Ill 

XI. One Way of Looking at It, . .122 

XII. Another Way, 134 

XIII. A Thunderclap, 146 

XIV. The Bride of Jacob’s Flat, . . 158 

XV. At Jacob’s Flat 172 

% 

XVI. The Pursuit, 185 

iii 


CONTENTS. 


iv 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XVII. A Life Chase, 197 

XVIII. On the Track, 205 

XIX. The Great Waters, .... 220 

XX. The Prodigal Returned, . 233 

XXI. Counsel, 246 

XXII. Face to Face, 259 

XXIII. Flight, 271 

XXIV. The Last Meeting, . . . 284 


THE WEDDIIH RUG. 


CHAPTER I. 

IN Peter’s street, Westminster. 

O N a chilly spring morning a young 
woman sat at an uncovered deal table 
near the thii^d floor window of a house in 
Peter’s Street, Westminster, with a little 
pile of gilt-edged cards and a water-color 
box before her. A child was lying in her 
lap, a wee thing of a year old, with a white 
face and large eyes of more than Oriental 
gravity, and small flsts curled tight upon 
her breast. She did not distract her 
mother’s attention from the work on which 
she was occupied by any of the kickings 
and the cooings usual to healthy infancy, 
but lay as still as if she understood the 
necessity of quiet to the artistic laborer, and 
with precocious self-denial subdued the 
high spirits proper to her age. 

The young woman was tall and finely 


THE WEDDING RING. 


built, and her face, which was very sad and 
gentle, needed only a touch of color and a 
little more fullness of outline to be beauti- 
ful. There was about her an aspect of sor- 
row grown patient, which was pitiful to see 
in the face of one so young, for she had 
hardly passed girlhood in years. 

As she worked, her foot beat on the floor 
in a gently rhythmic measure, and her voice 
crooned a tuneless song to the child upon 
her knee. 

It was a large low-ceilinged room, oc- 
cupying the whole width of the house, 
and sparsely and shabbily furnished. A 
bed stood in one corner with a cradle at its 
foot. A chest of drawers, with half its 
knobs missing ; a couple of old-fashioned 
rush-bottomed chairs, a square table of 
deal, with red legs ; a wash-stand bearing 
a cracked jug and basin, a battered sofa, 
covered in torn and faded chintz, and a 
strip of dogs-eared carpet, whose originally 
gaudy pattern had faded to a uniform dirty 
gray, completed its articles of necessary* 
furniture. 

A few scraps of clothing, male and female, 
hung from pegs behind the door. 

Near the window an old field easel, with 
an invalid leg, repaired with a bamboo walk- 


IN PETER'S STREET, WESTMINSTER. 3 

ing cane, supported an almost finished land- 
scape, and a broken porte couleur., with a 
score of half empty tubes of color and a 
handful of ragged brushes, lay on the floor 
beside it. ' 

On the mantle-piece above the fireless grate 
was a tobacco jar, a brandy bottle, a tumbler, 
and a couple of wooden pipes, flanked at 
either end by a photograph. 

One of these photographs no observer 
would have had any difficulty in identifying 
as the portrait of the young woman painting 
near the window, though the expression of 
the photograph had nothing in common with 
that of the original at the moment we make 
her acquaintance. It represented a bloom- 
ing, laughing lass of nineteen, clad in a light 
summer frock, with wildflowers in her hair 
and at the bosom of her dress. Beneath it 
was written, in a frank female hand, “To 
Philip,” a date being added. The other was 
that of a young man with a straw hat perched 
on the back of his head, a cigarette in his 
mouth, a flaming tie loosely knotted under 
the collar of a silk shirt, and a velvet jacket. 
A handsome face, quite alive to its own 
charm. Under it was written, “ To Gillian,” 
and a repetition of the date borne by the 
companion photograph. 


4 


THE WEDDING BING, 


The room was scrupulously neat. 

The girl worked on briskly with swift 
fingers, and crooned to the child. It was yet 
early, though the sounds of traffic in the 
streets below were louder^than they would 
be for two hours to come in more fashionable 
thoroughfares. Presently she paused for a 
moment, with the suspended brush in her 
uplifted fingers, and after a moment’s listen- 
ening, resumed her work. 

A step sounded on the stairs. The door 
opened and a man entered the room. 

He too would have been easily recogniza- 
ble by any otie avIio had seen the second 
photograph upon the mantle-piece. He 
had the look of one who is just beginning 
to repent of too jolly an overnight. His 
face was fiushed, his eyes were bleared. 
The girl did not even look at him, and re- 
ceived his entrance in silence, a silence as 
eloquent as any reiDroach could have been. 
For when a husband comes home imper- 
fectly sober in the early morning, and his 
wife finds nothing to say, it shows that the 
circumstance must have been so often re- 
peated that she has got past tears and en- 
treaties, and takes it as a thing of course. 

As has been suggested, Philip O' Mara 
was by no means a bad-looking fellow ; yet 


IN PETER'S STREET, WESTMINSTER. 5 

he had a certain undefinable air of being 
handsomer than he was. The photograph, 
taken some five years ago, flattered his act- 
ual appearance, because no man can pass 
five years in selfish indulgence without 
grave detriment to any beauty he may orig- 
inally have started with. 

As with the man, so with the clothes he 
wore. Contrg-sted with the almost squalid 
shabbiness of the room and of his wife’s 
dress, thej^ looked for a moment as if they 
would have j)assed muster in any society. 
Then one saw that his coat was not of vel- 
vet, but of coarse velveteen, which fe.d to a 
doubt as to the genuineness of the jeweled 
ring on his finger, and a wonder as to 
whether anything more valuable than a 
latch key was attached to the chain which 
glittered across his waistcoat. Mr. O’ Mara’s 
sartorial splendors, like their wearer, were 
rather of the shabby swell order, and did 
not come off well from close examination. 

‘‘ Dear Gillian !” he began, “industrious 
ffirl ! ’Pon my soul, you make me blush 
for myself ! ” 

The blush was purely internal, for no 
signs of it were visible without. He took 
up one of the cards she had finished. 

“ Deliglitful, my dear Gillian ; delightful. 


6 


THE WEDDING BING. 


Your powers of imagination are really ex- 
traordinary, and your technique improves 
every day.” * 

Nobody could have told for certain 
whether he was speaking in mockery or ex- 
aggerated compliment. 

‘‘You are doing those on commission 

“No,” replied Griilian. 

“ A pity. But still, work so delightful is 
certain of a sale.” 

He returned the card to the table. 

“Ah, apropos of sale — how inexpressibly 
revolting it is, by the way, my dear Gillian, 
that even the creation of beauty, which 
should be the delightful satisfaction of a di- 
vine instinct, should be degraded to the sor- 
did level of the manufacturer of articles of 
vulgar necessity. Talking of sale, have you 
any money ? ” 

“ I have no money,” she replied. 

It was noticeable that while the husband 
interlarded his address to her with endear- 
ing epithets, and expressed in the longest 
polysyllables the most beautiful sentiments, 
Gillian avoided speaking one unnecessary 
word. 

“My own finances,” he said, after a 
search in his pockets, “amount to— yes — 
one and sixpence halfpenny. Not a large 


IJSr PETER’S STREET, WESTMINSTER. 1 

amount, but still, judiciously expended, it 
may do something to mitigate the dis- 
comforts I already e^^perience, and which 
threaten to become even more pronounced. 
There is some brandy left.” 

He examined the bottle on the mantle- 
piece. 

“ Would you, my dear Gillian, get me a 
couple of bottles of soda water and a packet 
of Peachblossom cigarettes ! ” 

She took the money from the table where 
he laid it, and for the first time since his en- 
trance raised her eyes to his face. 

‘‘Mr. Bream was here last night,” she 
said. “ He tells me that Dora is really ill, 
and must have attention, better food, and 
change of air. He wrote a prescription for 
her, but I had not the money to get it made 
up.” 

“ My dear Gillian ! ” said O’ Mara, “ you 
really distress yourself about the child to a 
quite unnecessary degree. You are always 
raising false alarms about her. Six months 
ago she was going to die, I remember. Mr. 
Bream is, no doubt, a very estimable person, 
as a clergyman, but he is not omniscient. 
What can he possibly know about Dora’s 
health?” 


8 


THE WEDDING lUNG. 


“He studied as a doctor before be took 
orders,” answered Gillian. 

“ Quite a Crichton,” said O’ Mara, “I have 
no doubt. Still, I would prefer the verdict 
of a medical man in practice.” 

“I shall spend this money,” said Gillian, 
“or, at least, as much of it as will be re- 
quired, in getting the medicine Mr. Bream 
prescribed for Dora. With the rest I will 
buy soda water or cigarettes, just as you 
please.” 

“I am sure,” said O’ Mara, “that you 
will do nothing of the kind, my dear Gillian. 
You, who are a model of all the virtues, 
know that it is a wife’s first duty to obey 
her husband.” 

“I shall get the medicine for Dora,” re- 
peated Gillian. 

“Then,” said O’ Mara, seizing her wrist 
with a sudden sharp wrench, which made 
her wince and drop the money on the table, 
“ I shall have to do my marketing myself, 
or find another messenger.” 

Quite unruffled by this little incident, 
O’ Mara left the room. She heard his voice 
upon the stair, calling to the girl in the 
basement, and a minute after he re-entered. 

“A mistake in your tactics, my dear,” he 
remarked, as he kicked off his shoes and lay 


IN PETER ’S STREET, WESTMINSTER. 9 

down upon the bed. “ It would have been 
wiser to have bought the medicine and said 
nothing of your intentions — wiser, though 
less honest and not more dutiful. You 
will know better next time.” 

She heard him in silence, finding no reply. 
With the despairing patience which years 
of such brutalities had taught her, she again 
took up her brush, and bent over her work. 
O’ Mara turned upon the bed, seeking an 
easy posture, and had fallen asleep before 
the girl came in with her i^urchases. 

It was past noon when- he awoke, and, 
finding the soda water on the mantle-piece 
beside the brandy, mixed himself a copious 
draught, which he drank to his great appa- 
rent refreshment. He sluiced his face and 
head liberally with cold water, and, having 
replaced his coat and waistcoat, arranged 
the easel beside the window, and seated 
himself before it. 

There were once, my dear Gillian,” he 
began, lighting a cigarette, and regarding 
the picture through the smoke with an eye 
at once critical and approving, ‘ ‘ there 
were once — you will see the application of 
the story directly — two travelers who had, 
through infinite difficulties and dangers, 
traveled across a desert, and arrived within 


10 


THE WEDDING BING. 


an hour’s walk of the confines of civiliza- 
tion. One of them at that point succumbed 
to his fatigue. He could go no farther. 
They had between them one dose of brandy. 
‘ If,’ said the sick man to his companion, 
‘ you will give me that brandy, I think I 
could manage the rest of the distance.’ His 
companion, instead of giving it to him, 
drank it himself. ‘ What detestable selfish- 
ness ! ’ you will remark, precisely as I did 
myself when I first read this instructive 
legend. But I was mistaken, for his object 
in drinking the brandy was to recuperate 
his force sufficiently to enable him to carry 
his friend the rest of the distance. Thus we 
may learn, my dear Gillian, not to judge 
our neighbors on insufficient evidence. You 
see the application of the fable ? I am the 
robust traveler, you — or rather our darling 
Dora — is the feeble one. Without that 
brandy and soda I could not possibly have 
finished this picture, and unless I finished 
the picture there would be no dinner for us 
to-day.” 

Gillian listened in her accustomed silence, 
and O’ Mara, having set his palate, attacked 
his work. He painted rapidly and dexter- 
ously, and after a couple of hours of work, 
punctuated by the drinking of more brandy 


IN PETER '8 STREET WESTMINSTER. 1 1 

and soda and the lighting of fresh cigarettes, 
pushed his chair back and rose. 

‘‘ That should do, I think. I must invent 
a title for it — something touching and poet- 
ical. There is much virtue in a name. Our 
good British public have not yet risen so 
high in artistic appreciation as to separate 
art and literature. To me, its creator, that 
picture needs no title. To any soul in kin- 
ship with my own it would need none. The 
average Philistine will ask, ‘ What is it ? ’ 
It is not enough that it is beautiful, a touch 
of celestial harmony in adorable contrast 
with the hideousness of daily life.” He 
sighed, as if the stupidity of the world was 
hard to bear. “I should be glad of your 
opinion, Gillian.” 

“ What do you think you will get for it, 
Philip ? ” she asked gravely. 

‘‘My darling ! ” he remonstrated, with a 
quick indrawing of the breath between his 
teeth, as if the question hurt him, “you 
should really discourage this — this extreme 
practicality of mind. It is growing on you.” 

“ I must have money, Philip ; you must 
bring me some to-day.” 

“My dear, you shall have money. But 
surely, after so many years’ knowledge of 
my temperament, you might have more feel- 


12 


TEE WEDDINE RING. 


ing for my peculiarities than to ask me, 
happy as I am in the contemplation of a 
thing of beauty fresh from my hands, what — 
what shall I get for it. Get for it ! Is it 
not enough to know that I must part with it, 
the last sweet child of my fancy ; the Ben- 
jamin, so to speak, of what poor artistic 
faculty I possess ? Still, you are right. The 
vulgar necessities of life are paramount. 
Facts must be faced.” 

“You will let me have some money to- 
night?” she pleaded. “ There is rent due, 
Philip, and there is nothing in the house to 
eat. And, oh Philip, I shouldn’t mind for 
myself, but Dora ! She is really ill. See how 
pale she is, and all day long she has never 
made a movement. She lies for hours, and 
she used to be so bright and lively.” 

“ Well, well ! ” he answered fretfully, 
perhaps a little touched through his hide- 
bound selfishness for the moment. “ I will 
bring what I get for the picture.” 


CHAPTER 11. 


THE ROAD TO RUIN. 

I T was manifestly impossible for a gentle- 
man of O’ Mara’s high breeding and fas- 
tidious tastes to be seen trudging on foot 
with a picture under his arm, like any 
work-a-day canvas spoiler who habitually 
painted, not for the divine instinct which 
prompts to the creation of beauty, but with 
the sordid aim of money making. Accord- 
ingly he took a hansom, and drove comfort- 
ably to the shop of a picture dealer in 
Wardour Street, with whom he had done 
business aforetime. 

“Hum!” said the dealer, looking at the 
picture with his mouth critically screwed 
on one side, “really, I don’t know as I 
want it. Pictures are a fearful drug in the 
market. Trade’s so bad, everything flat. 
’Taint so good as that last one of yours, you 
know.” 

“Naturally,” said O’ Mara. “The first I 
ever offered you was no good, and I have 
13 


14 


THE WEDDim RING. 


been steadily deteriorating ever since. But 
you bouglit them ! ’ ’ 

O’ Mara had the knack of suiting his con- 
versation to his company and, did not waste 
flowers of speech on this artistic middle- 
man. 

“Where is it?” asked the dealer. 

“A little corner of my uncle’s place — Sir 
Charles Yandaleur — in Surrey. I’ve been 
staying down there for the last month.” 

“Ah!” The title, carelessly dropped, 
had its effect upon the worthy tradesman. 

“ What are you going to call it ? ” 

“Really, I don’t know. ‘ Crepuscule,’ 
would that do ? ” 

“Don’t believe in foreign titles; people . 
don’t understand ’em. What’s it mean ? ” 

“It means Twilight.” 

“That’d do,” said the dealer, “if it 
hadn’t been used so much. Tell you what, 
call it ‘ In the Gloaming.’ There’s a tune 
called that, very popular on the organ.” 

O’ Mara’s eyes were raised to the ceiling 
in a speechless pang of sesthetic agony. 

“That’d do,” said the dealer, and re- 
peated the title with the relish of a man 
who feels that he has satisfactorily solved a 
problem. “ “In the Gloaming.’ Could you 
get a couple of Aggers in just here, say a 


THE ROAD TO RUIN. 


15 


boy and girl spooning? ’Uman interest, 
that’s what the public likes in a picture.” 

“ My dear sir,” said O’ Mara, with the air 
of one who unbends to make his meaning 
plain to an inferior intelligence which must 
needs be conciliated, “ it is the absence of 
human interest which makes the precious- 
ness of art. The intrusion of a boy and 
girl ‘spooning’ (he seemed to speak the 
word under protest, and proceeded to clear 
his palate of its slangy offensiveness by a 
mouthful of polysyllables) would annihilate 
the aesthetic value of the composition. The 
interview of anything so vulgar on that 
majestic solitude of nature would be an out- 
• rage, my dear sir — a positive outrage.” 

“ Don’t see it,” said the dealer shortly. 

O’ Mara had spoken with less than his 
ordinary tact. Nobody likes to be told 
that a suggestion which he thinks clever is 
an outrage. Sincerity was not 0’Mara‘’s 
strong point, but if he had any touch of it 
in his nature, it was on questions in which 
art was concerned. He had his own concep- 
tion of what pictures should be, and had 
painted this one in accordance with it. It 
w^as hard to receive lessons from a vulgarian 
who talked about “ ’uman interest,” and in 
his artistic heat O’Mara temporarily forgot 


16 


THE WEDDim Rim. 


that the vulgarian, though artistically con- 
temptible, was financially worthy of respect. 

“You work in them two figgers,’’ said 
the dealer, with the air of a man who speaks 
his last word, “and I’ll call it ‘In the 
Gloaming,’ and give you a tenner for it.” 

Had this been put a little more in the 
form of a request and a little less directly as 
an order. O’ Mara might have yielded. As 
it was, he felt compelled to resent the out- 
rage on art and on his own superior social 
status. He was an aristocratic amateur who 
condescended to sell, not a beggarly dauber 
who kept the pot boiling with the labor of 
his hands. 

“I am afraid that even when improved * 
by the figures ‘ spooning ’ — that, I think, was 
your expression — my humble effort would 
hardly be worth your offer for it. I wish 
you good-morning.” 

“Morning,” said the man of business, 
rattling his money in his pockets, and per- 
mitting the nephew of Sir Charles Yandaleur 
to open the door for himself. 

He drove to two or three other places, 
with no better luck. He had to avoid most 
of the dealers he knew, being in their debt. 
The rebuffs dashed his courage, and he was 
sensible that after each liis manner was less 


THE ROAD TO RUIN. 


17 


easy and engaging, and he did not drop in 
the name of his titled relatives in Surrey 
quite so naturally as he could have wished. 

The lack of human interest was so strongly 
insisted on, that at last he suggested to a 
dealer, who seemed inclined to buy, that he 
should work in the ‘‘spooning” couple. 
He also suggested, as a happy thought which 
had just struck him, that the picture should 
be christened, “In the Gloaming,” and 
dwelt on the popularity of the air of that 
name. The dealer assented, and promised 
to give him ten pounds for the picture, so 
altered. 

O’ Mara bade his cabman drive him to the 
Temple, where he had an acquaintance 
named Seyton, who dabbled in the arts, and 
who placed his tools at his disposal, and 
posed for the masculine member of the in- 
terpolated group, pressing the laundress 
into his service to represent his inamorata. 

Seyton was a light-hearted youth, and did 
not greatly sympathize with O’ Mara in his 
mournings over this degradation of art, 
seeming to see the humorous side of the 
situation more clearly. His impromptu fel- 
low model, it may be observed, was younger 
and comelier than most of her kind. 

The early spring evening was beginning to 


18 


THE WEDDING RING. 


fall when O’ Mara had completed his task. 
He had eaten nothing all day, and, when 
Seyton proposed that they should dine to- 
gether, readily assented. He took the pic- 
ture to the dealer, received his ten pounds, 
and discharged his cabman, whose fare had 
been accumulating all this time. 

At the restaurant to which they repaired 
for dinner, Seyton found two of his acquain- 
tances, and an hour passed rapidly enough 
at table. O’ Mara dined with what he felt 
to be a commendable modesty for a man 
with over nine pounds in his pocket ; a little 
clear soup, a bit of fish, a bottle of Beaune, 
a cup of coffee, and a liqueur are not un- 
justifiable extravagances for a man so fam- 
ished. 

Dinner over, Seyton proposed an adjourn- 
ment to his rooms for a quiet round at nap. 
If that i)atient figure of his wife, sitting at 
home with their sick child upon her knee, 
had troubled O’ Mara much during the day, 
the genial influences of the dinner and the 
society of his confreres had quite expelled 
the vision from his mind. 

They went to the Temple together, and 
Seyton hospitably produced liquors and 
cigars, of which he and his two acquain- 
tances liberally partook, with a proportion- 


THE ROAD TO RUIN. 


19 


ate access of geniality. They were all three 
younger in the ways of the world than they 
would liked to have been thought, or they 
would have noticed that though O’ Mara 
was as free in talk and laughter as they, he 
was by far the soberest member of the party, 
and though his glass went as often to his 
lips as the best of good fellowship required, 
it required filling much more seldom than 
theirs. 

He won steadily for half an hour, and as 
they were playing a ready-money game had 
pretty nearly doubled his capital in that 
time. Then one of his companions began 
to get restive. 

“Isay, Mr. O’ Mara,” he asked, “isn’t it 
a bit odd that when you deal you’re the 
only man who ever gets an ace ? ” 

A question of that kind would disconcert 
most people, but O’ Mara showed no sign of 
understanding its obvious meaning. 

“Is that so?” he asked, “I had not 
noticed it.” 

“Jimmy always gets rusty if the luck 
goes against him,” remarked Seyton. 

“ Yery natural,” said O’ Mara, with good- 
natured forbearance. “Nobody likes los- 
ing, I don’t, I know.” 

As Jimmy happened to get a fairly good 


20 


THE WEDDING RING. 


hand next time O’ Mara dealt, he made no 
remark for a time. But his next was even 
more startling than his first. 

‘‘You low cad ! ” he exclaimed, “ you’ve 
got the ace of hearts and the ace of clubs 
between your knees and the table ! ” 

He dragged the table away, and the cards 
fell to the ground. 

O’ Mara raised his hand to dash the pack 
in his face, but Seyton caught his arm. 

“JSTone of that!” he said, sternly but 
quietly. “ I think you’d better go. O’ Mara. 
I beg your pardon, you fellows.” 

O’ Mara, white as death, took up his hat 
and stick and left the room, the others mak- 
ing way for him. The flush of rage which 
had followed Jimmy’s denunciation of him 
had passed, aiid he felt sick and shaken. 
Seyton’ s tone of quiet scorn rang in his ears, 
the apology he had made for intruding upon 
his friends the society of a detected card- 
sharper was bitter to remember. 

He had reached the Strand before he re- 
membered that, in the shame and confusion 
of his detection, he had left Seyton’ s rooms 
not only without the money he had won, 
which he certainly would not have been al- 
lowed to take, but without the bulk of his 
own money. 


THE ROAD TO RUIN. 


21 


For a moment the discovery had stripped 
him of the icy veneer of affectation which 
long use had made second nature to him, 
and he stood still in the street, shaking his 
fist and sputtering curses until the passers- 
by paused and stared at him. 

He walked on, drunk and blind with rage. 

The idea crossed his mind that he might 
go back to the Temple and claim his money, 
but even his cynicism quailed at the thought 
of facing those who had so recently expelled 
him from their society as a convicted swin- 
dler. The figure of Jimmy, who was mus- 
cular and obviously had a nasty temper, 
finally appeared in his mind’s eye to put the 
idea to flight. 

He paused under a gas lamp and counted 
the coins remaining to him. They amounted 
in all to a few shillings. 

‘‘Was ever such damnable luck!” he 
groaned. “To be detected by a pack of 
boobies like that. I can never show my face 
again. I must get out of this. London is 
played out for me. I’ll go home and work 
for a day or two, make a little money, and go. 
Gillian and the child must shift for them- 
selves.” 

He steadied his shaking nerves with a 
glass of brandy at a bar near Charing Cross, 


22 


THE WEDDING RING. 


and doggedly started for home. It was rain- 
ing, and before he arrived in Peter Street 
he was wet to the skin. 

He let himself in with his' latch -key, and 
mounted the stairs. 

The door of his room was ajar, and he 
heard voices within — his wife, and the deeper 
tones of a man. He crept softly up the final 
flight and listened. 


CHAPTER III. 


A THIEF m THE NIGHT. 

G illian, meanwhile, had completed 
her work, and followed her husband’s 
example of going out to find a patron for it, 
with less success than he had met. 

None of the tradesmen to whom she 
offered the little package of cards, painted 
with pretty, feeble designs, wanted them, 
or had need of any service she was fitted to 
perform. She was only one of many hun- 
dreds of women, gently born and nurtured, 
who were tramping the streets of London 
that day on similar errands, trying to turn 
to some profit the conventional accomplish- 
ments which is part of what is termed their 
education. 

Of all sad spectacles in the world, the 
penniless lady is the most hopeless. One 
meets her on every hand, bravely and 
silently fighting her hopeless battle, con- 
tent if she can secure wages a bricklayer 
would scorn. And every day her numbers 
increase. 


23 


24 


THE WEDDING RING. 


A neighbor, as poor as herself, a little 
seampstress who worked sixteen hours a day 
for five farthings an hour in the garret 
overhead, had taken charge of Dora for her 
during her absence. She had nothing but 
thanks to give her for her services, nor 
would the brave little woman have accepted 
any recompense more solid. 

Only those who have lived among the 
poor can know what they are to each other, 
how by continual little shiftings of their 
common burden they make it endurable to 
their bruised and weary shoulders. 

Gillian sat with her child in her lap be- 
side the window in the fading light of the 
chill spring evening. There was a threat of 
rain in the low-lying clouds and in the 
moist, dark air. At no time of the year is 
Peter Street a particularly pleasant neigh- 
borhood, but it knows its dreariest period in 
the dreary evenings which precede the com- 
ing of summer, at least to the minds of such 
of its inhabitants as have any memory or 
imagination of the brooding peace of the 
lands beyond the city. 

The cracked and dirty pavements, the 
roadway littered with vegetable offal, the 
sordid houses, from whose windows dangle 
wretched scraps of household linen, the 


A THIEF IN THE NIGHT. 


25 


heavy air, gritty with dust or foul with the 
mists of the neighboring river and the fumes 
of the forest of chimneys, all weigh upon 
the spirit with a leaden gloom. Swarms of 
children, ragged, dirty, and unkempt, fill 
the streets with tumult in a haggard sem- 
blance of play. Rusty cats and dilapidated 
poultry swear and spit and cluck and scratch 
about the kennels. 

She fell into a dreamy reverie, from which 
she was awakened by the striking of a clock 
on the floor below. 

“Mne!” she counted. “It is time he 
was here. Surely, oh, surely he will not 
disappoint me to-day, when he knows how 
much depends on it.” 

The child stirred in her lap with a feverish 
wail, and she raised it to her breast and 
rocked it there, singing to quiet it. 

“If we could only get away from Lon- 
don,” she thought, “away from the people 
who take Philip from his work and his 
home ! Oh, darling, hush ! You must be 
patient, dear. Papa will come directly, and 
bring the medicine to make my darling well 
again, and perhaps the money to take us 
into the country, all among the grass and 
flowers and the fresh air.” 

She ran on, as mothers will, talking to the 


26 


THE WEDDING RING. 


child as if her words were as comx)rehensible 
to its little intelligence as the hajDpy tone in 
which she forced herself to speak them. 

‘‘That’s all we want, isn’t it, to make us 
well and strong again ? Hush, what’ s that ? ’ ’ 

She paused in her talk to the child with a 
sudden catch of the breath. 

“ Philip ? Yes, thank God.” 

Her face flushed at the sound of a foot 
upon the stair. It mounted as she listened 
eagerly, but she fell back in her seat with a 
sigh of patient disappointment as a knock 
sounded at the door. 

“ Come in ! ” she answered, and the visitor 
obeyed. 

“Mr. Bream?” she asked, peering at him 
through the shadows. 

“Yes,” answered a cheery voice. “ I was 
passing on my way home and thought I 
would run up and see how you were, and 
the little one.” . 

Gillian rose and lit a candle. 

Her visitor was a man of thirty-five or so, 
broad shouldered and strongly built, deep 
in the chest, long in the arms, with a clean- 
shaven face of healthy pallor and crisply 
curling hair. He was rather negligently 
dressed in the uniform of a Church of Eng- 
land curate, but his general style and man- 


A THIEF IN THE NIGHT, 


27 


ner were by no means of the conventional 
clerical kind, and but for his clothes he 
might have been anything in the world but 
a parson. 

“Mr. O’ Mara’s out, I see,” li>e remarked, 
after shaking hands. 

“Yes ; he finished the picture this morn- 
ing, and has gone to take it home. I am 
expecting him back every minute. Pray 
take a seat, Mr. Bream.” 

Mr. Bream’s quick eyes, traveling round 
the room in a perfectly candid examination, 
rested on the brandy and the empty soda 
water bottle. 

“Hum!” he said, in a tone too low to 
reach his companion’s ear, and, obeying her 
invitation, drew the remaining chair to her 
side and sat down. 

“And how is Dora?” he asked, bending 
above the child as she lay in her mother’s 
lap. “Allow me.” 

He took the child delicately in his strong 
hands, and examined it by the light of 
the candle, with his finger on the little 
wrist. 

“ Hum 1 ” he said again. “ The medicine 
does not seem to have answered as well as I 
had expected. You are sure you obeyed the 
directions ? ” 


28 


THE WEDDING BING. 


Gillian’s fluttering breath was the only 
answer to his query. 

‘‘The pulse is weaker,” said Bream, as if 
to himself, but with his eyes fixed on the 
mother’s averted face. “Dry skin, dis- 
tinctly feverish — Mrs. O’ Mara, answer me, 
please. Has the child had the medicine ? ” 

“Ho,” she answered faintly. 

“ That,” said the curate, “ can mean only 
one thing — that you have not the money to 
buy it. Come, come, are we not old friends 
enough yet to speak to eacli other plainly ? 
Do you put your pride in the balance with 
your child’s life ? ” 

“With her life?” she said. “Oh, Mr. 
Bream ! ” 

“ The child is seriously ill,’’ he answered. 
“ She was ill yesterday, and is worse to- 
day.” 

Mrs. O’ Mara stared at him with a face as 
white as paper. 

“ I warn you that Dora’s life is in danger. 
She must have proper treatment, proper 
food, change of air. Think ! Is there no 
way of procuring these for her ? ’ ’ 

Gillian shook her head, with her hands 
opening and shutting with a nervous, me- 
chanical gesture. The blow had been so 
sudden she could not realize it yet. 


A THIEF IH THE NIGHT. 


29 


‘‘The medicine,” said Mr. Bream, “is 
easily arranged for.” 

He turned to the table, and wrote on a 
leaf torn from his note -book. 

“ Excuse me,” he said, “ while I give this 
to the landlady.” 

Gillian, left alone with the child, strained 
it in her arms, but without looking at it, 
staring straight before her, with a wide-eyed 
look of terror. 

“ Listen to me, Mrs. O’ Mara,” said Bream, 
re-entering the room. “ I knew, when first 
you came to live in this place, that both you 
and your husband were different in birth 
and breeding from the people about you. It 
was impossible to see either of you and not 
to know it. It was not my business then — 
it would have been an impertinence — to ask 
questions, to pry into your past, to seek in 
any way to know more of your history than 
you chose to tell. It is different now, and I 
am resolved to allow no scruple of false 
delicacy to restrain me from prompting you 
to plain duty. Have you any relations, any 
friends, who could help you ? I do not ask 
to know who they are, for the moment at 
least. But, are there any such ? ” 

“No,” she answered. “There are none. 
I wore out their patience months ago.” 


30 


THE WEDDING BING. 


“If you have friends and relatives,” said 
Bream, “think if there is not one among 
them who would help you once more. Your 
child’s life depends upon it ! ” 

“I have tried them,” she answered. 
“They have not even answered my letters.” 
“Your parents?” 

“ They are dead ! ” 

“ Your husband’s friends ? ” 

“ He has none. None at least w^ho would 
help.” 

“Who are his friends? You knew his 
family when you married him ? ” 

“No.” 

She tried to bound her answer to that one 
syllable, but her longing for sympathy, the 
need which lies in all of us to lighten the 
burden of our suffering by speech, impelled 
her on, though she kept watch over herself, 
and spoke only in guarded words. 

“He was a stranger when he came to — to 
where I lived. I was only a child. He said 
he loved me. My father was dying, my 
mother was dead ; I had neither brother nor 
sister ; I saw the time coming when I should 
be alone in the world. He won my father’s 
confidence, who was glad to leave me with a 
protector who could take care of me, and 
urged me to the marriage.” 


A THIEF IN THE NIGHT. 


31 


“And you know nothing of his people — of 
his family? ’’ 

“ Nothing. I do not even know if he had 
any right to the name he gave me.’’ 

Mr. Bream was silent for a moment before 
asking — 

“Does he know the state of the child ? ” 

“ I told him what you said last night. 
When he went out this morning with the 
picture he promised, if he sold it, to return 
and give me some money for the child. Oh, 
my poor little innocent darling ! ” 

The floodgates of her tears, closed too long, 
opened, and she wept without restraint. 

“I have some money,” said Bream, “in- 
trusted to me for charitable purposes by 
friends of mine. A month of country air 
and proper attention, and wholesome food, 
would save the child’s life. You must let 
me be your banker, Mrs. O’ Mara. No, no ! 
I won’t hear a word. You must take it. 
When fortune is kinder to you, as must hap- 
pen, for no man of Mr. O’ Mara’s talents can 
remain poor for long, you may repay me, 
and if you like to add a little interest I shall 
not refuse it. Now, my dear Mrs. O’ Mara, 
I won’t hear another word on the subject. 
It’s settled and done with. Here is the 
money— ten pounds. With economy that 


32 


TEE WEDDING RING. 


should be enough to give you and Dora a 
month in the country, or at the seaside. Mr. 
O’ Mara, I am sure, will not object to your re- 
ceiving it as a loan. ” 

‘ ‘ I can’ t refuse it, ’ ’ said Gillian. ‘ ‘ I have 
not the right. And yet — Mr. Bream, I shall 
never be able to repay you.” 

You will repay me, and over pay me, by 
bringing back Dora strong and well. In the 
mean time, while you are away, I must try 
and see if I cannot find you some employ- 
ment in the neighborhood. Do you think 
you could teach in the school ? One of the 
ladies there is about to leave us. The salary 
is not large, but every little helps, and we 
might be able to find something better later 
on. And now I must get away, for I have 
other visits to make. No, don’t move, I 
beg. I can find my way out perfectly well. 
Good-by, little one ; I hope you will come 
back with the roses in your cheeks which 
used to be there. Good-night, Mrs. O’ Mara. ’ ’ 

He gently extricated his hand from Gil- 
lian’s gratefully clinging grasp, and bustled 
out to cut short the flood of incoherent 
thanks she poured out on him. The landing 
outside was too dark to permit him to see 
the figure of O’ Mara, against whom he al- 
most brushed as he descended the stairs. 


A THIEF IN THE NIGHT. 


33 


Left alone with Dora, Gillian’s joy over- 
flowed in a thousand hysterical caresses, 
which so frightened the child that she be- 
gan to cry. The mother quieted her by 
dancing before her eyes the glittering coins 
which Bream had left behind him ; a thou- 
sand times the sum in minted gold had never 
sounded half so sweet in the miser’s ears as 
did the chink of those few precious coins in 
Gillian’s. 

“ Isn’t he a good man, my darling % You 
shall learn to bless him, and thank him, and 
pray for him. He has saved your life, my 
sweet, and your poor mother’s too, for how 
could I live if my precious one were taken 
away from me ? I knew help would come. 
I knew it. God could not be so cruel as to 
rob me of you, my treasure.” 

She stopped suddenly at sight of O’ Mara, 
who had entered the room unnoticed, and 
was standing almost beside her, his clothes 
glistening with rain. 

‘^You seem excited,” he said. ‘‘May I 
ask if anything in particular has occurred ? ” 

His sudden appearance, his monotonous, 
mocking voice, froze her with terror and 
foreboding. 

In that sudden bright dream of hope for 
her child she had forgotten her husband’s 


34 


THE WEDDim RING. 


mere existence. At the first sight of him 
she had instinctively closed her hand upon 
the money. She stood panting and staring 
at him, as if he surprised her in the commis- 
sion of a theft. He looked back at her with 
a face like a mask, and his eye glittering 
evilly in the candle light. 

‘‘ What have you got in your hand ? ” he 
asked. 

“Mr. Bream has been here,” she began, 
and paused. 

“Mr. Bream has been here,” he repeated. 
“Well?” 

“He has given me money to take Dora 
into the country.” 

“How much ? ” he asked. 

“Ten pounds,” she answered. He had 
expected her to say less, and had merely 
asked the question to help her in the lie, 
which showed how little real knowledge he 
had of her nature after their years of 
marriage. 

“Mr. Bream is generous,” he said with a 
hardly perceptible sneer. 

His manner was unusual, and puzzled Gil- 
lian almost as much as it frightened her. 
There was something of a struggle going on 
in his mind, which he disguised by his ex- 
pressionless face and voice. He meant to 


A THIEF IN THE NIGHT. 35 

take the money Bream had left, but his 
sense of shame was not wholly dead, and he 
hesitated as to the means he should employ 
to wrest it from her. 

Suddenly his brutality, always ill-con- 
cealed beneath the varnish of his affecta- 
tions, triumphed. 

I want that money he said. ‘‘ Give it 
to me ! ” 

For the first time for many a day, the 
courage which underlay Gillian’s acquies- 
cence flamed out into open revolt. 

‘‘Not one penny if you kill me!” she 
answered, with her teeth set, and outraged 
wife and mother written in her face and the 
inspired poise of her figure as she faced him. 
“Stand off!” she cried as he advanced. 
“ Don’t dare to touch me. It is my child’s 
life I hold in my hands, and I will die rather 
than yield it up.” 

He made a sudden clutch at the hand 
which held the money, and missing it, 
seized her by the throat in a sudden access 
of rage. For the moment her passion lent 
her strength, and she struggled hard, but 
the cruel grip choked her breath. She tried 
to cry for help, but only a stifled moan 
escaped her, and she fell, striking her head 
heavily against the leg of the table, with a 


36 


THE WEDDING RING. 


crash which seemed to shake the house, and 
lay still upon the floor. 

With a noiseless step O’Mara ran to the 
door and listened. 

The house was still ; no one had heard 
Gillian’s fall. 

He crept back to her, and saw from among 
the tumbled tresses of her hair a dark red 
line, momentarily growing in width, staining 
the boards. Even in falling she had kept 
the hand which held the money close shut. 

In a thievish tremor, with his heart beat- 
ing like a muffled drum in his ears, he knelt 
beside her, and forced open the reluctant 
Angers. With pale face and shaking limbs 
he moved backward to the door, closing it 
to shut out the haunting vision of Gillian’s 
white face— whiter in contrast with that 
widening stain. • 

A minute later he had reached the street. 


CHAPTER lY. 


THE CLOUD BREAKS. 

HEN, slowly, like a swimmer rising 



VV through deep, dark waters to the 
growing light above, Gillian came back to 
consciousness, phantom memories of the 
troubled visions which had haunted her 
through her long sleep so mingled with reali- 
ties that it took some time to settle her im- 
pressions of the things around her. 

She was in bed, in a large and lofty room, 
which was certainly not the room in which 
the* last few moments of her life had been 
passed, though whose it might be, or how 
she had come there, were mysteries at 
which she could make no guess. 

There were hushed voices speaking at a 
little distance, but she was so weak that 
when she tried to turn her face in that 
direction she found the effort beyond her 
strength. She lay and wondered, with a 
languid curiosity, till a step approached 
her bed, and she saw, bending above her, 


38 


THE WEDDING BING. 


the face of a young woman, with a cloud of 
fair hair arranged beneath a white cap. 

A soft hand touched her foreliead, and a 
voice asked : 

‘‘You are better, now?” 

“Where am I?” Gillian would have 
asked in return, but her voice, like her 
strength, had gone, and the low and broken 
murmur which escaped her lips was 
scarcely audible to her own ears. 

“You have been very ill,” the girl said, 
in answer to the movement of her lips. 
“Do not try to talk, you are too weak. 
You are in St. Thomas’s Hospital. You 
have been here over a week.” 

Memory flowed back on Gillian like a flood. 

“ Dora ! ” she panted feebly, 

No emotion less strong than that all-con- 
quering one of maternity could have given 
her the strength to shape an intelligible 
word. 

“ Your little girl ? She is well. She is 
in the country. Mr. Bream is taking care 
of her. You shall see her when you are 
well enough— to-morrow, perhaps, if the 
doctor will allow .you. And now you must 
be quiet, and try not to talk any more. 
You have been very ill indeed, and in great 
danger ; but that is over now.” 


THE CLOUD BREAKS. 


39 


Gillian was so weak that, before the 
happy tears the woman’s reassuring words 
had called to her eyes were dry upon her 
lashes, she had fallen asleep. When next 
she woke the room was growing dark with 
shadows. The great bulk of the Palace of 
Parliament was dull purple against the rosy 
light of the western sky, and softened mur- 
murs of voices and the clank of oars came 
up from the river below. 

Presently a voice was heard praying, and 
muffled responses came from the rows of 
beds which lined the ward. Then a hymn 
was sung : 

Abide with me, fast falls the eventide ! 

and the guests of the great hostelry of the 
good Saint Thomas addressed themselves 
peacefully for sleep. 

She woke in the early morning, to find 
the gilded vane of St. Stephen’s burning 
like a beacon in the bright dawn, aud lazily 
watched the last thin wreaths of vapor from 
the river melt in the warm air. Her mind 
seemed as feeble as her body ; her one 
definite idea was that Dora was well, and 
that she should see her. 

She thought of her husband, and though 
her memory of every detail of their life to- 


40 


THE WEDDING RING. 


getlier was clear and perfect, slie remem- 
bered him with neither hate nor horror, but 
with the same languid indifference, which 
nothing but the idea of her child could stir. 
She murmured the name to herself, finding 
that after her night’s sleep she had strength 
enough to speak it. 

“Dora, Dora, Dora.” 

And so she fell asleep, like a tired child. 

There was the echo of a well-known voice 
in her ears when she woke again, and it was 
with no shock of surprise that she recog- 
nized it as Mr. Bream’s. 

“ It would not be advisable, you think,” 
he was saying, “ to give her any hint of that 
matter yet ? ” 

“I think not,” another voice replied. 
“ She is very weak. There is no necessity 
for telling her yet. Good news can always 
wait ; it loses nothing. Look ! She is 
awake. Don’t stay too long with her.” 

Bream came and sat beside her, with the 
grave and friendly smile his face constantly 
wore. He took her hand — the sight of it 
surprised him, it was so wan and thin — in 
his, and patted it gently. 

“Hush!” he said. “You must let me 
do all the talking. You want to know first 
about Dora? Dora is doing grandly. She 


THE CLOUD BREAKS, 


41 


has been in the country exactly a week, and 
has put on exactly two pounds in weight. 
I made the people who have her weigh her 
every day, and send me a bulletin. Tell me 
the age of a child, and how much the child 
weighs, and I’ll tell you whether it’s healthy 
or not. When will you see her, is the next 
question, isn’t it? That, my dear Mrs. 
O’ Mara, depends entirely on yourself. It 
depends on how soon you get strong enough 
to bear the meeting. Let us make a bargain. 
If you are very good, and get better very 
fast — let me see, to-day is Friday — yes, you 
shall see Dora on Sunday. Is that under- 
stood ?” 

There was an almost magic influence in 
Bream’s strength and tenderness, in his 
kindly face and helpful voice, which had 
often done a patient more good than all 
the drugs in the pharmacopoea could have 
worked. Gillian smiled at him through the 
moisture with which her weakness and his 
friendliness had filled her eyes, and he felt 
her feeble fingers press his, ever so lightly. 

“That’s well,” he said, as he rose. “I 
must go now. This is not the regular visit- 
ing hour at all, and I have been admitted 
only by special favor. I walked this hospi- 
tal before I took my degree and was house 


42 


THE WEDDING BING. 


surgeon in this very ward for two years. 
Good-by, and remember your promise. No 
improvement means no Dora ! ” 

With such a hope for her sick heart to 
feed on, it was not wonderful that Gillian 
should make rapid progress. The doctor 
who saw her morning and evening marveled 
at the speed of her return to convalescence. 

am to see Dora on Sunday, if I am 
better,” she told him, and the explanation 
sufficed, as she had thought it would. 

“ Dora deserves to be patented and regis- 
tered as a new healing agent,” said the 
surgeon. 

Sunday afternoon came, and with it came 
Dora, carried in the arms of a strapping, 
ruddy-cheeked peasant woman, who, drop- 
ping a courtesy, introduced herself as the lit- 
tle lady’s nurse, and hadn’t she come along 
beautiful ? So pale and wizened as she had 
been, and now just look at her. 

From the moment the child was laid upon 
her breast Gillian’s recovery went on at an 
even quicker rate. With reviving strength 
came new interest in the things of life. She 
asked Bream when next he came where her 
husband was. 

“He has vanished,” was the answer. 
“We have no news of him.” 


THE CLOUD HREAK8. 


43 


“Was any effort made to find him she 
asked. 

“ Yes, ” answered Bream . ‘ ‘ Every effort, 

but without result.” 

“ Dora and I must face the world alone,” 
said Gillian after a pause. 

“I hope — I think,” said Bream, “that 
the struggle will not be so severe as you 
anticipate. You are strong enough to bear 
good news now. I have some brave news. 
Your trials are over, Mrs. O’ Mara.” 

She looked at him with questioning eyes 
and heightened color. 

“ I have spoken, perhaps, before I ought,” 
said Mr. Bream ; ‘ ‘ indeed, there is an ac- 
credited messenger of the good news, a law- 
yer with whom I have been in communica- 
tion for the past week, who can tell you all 
the details. I can tell you nothing more 
than that you are, by the death of your 
uncle, Robert Scott, of Sydney, put beyond 
the need of want.” 

“I am very glad,” she said, “for Dora’s 
sake.” 

It was a relief to Bream to find her take 
the news so quietly. 

“I have seen you bear so much trouble 
bravely,” he said, “that I could not help 


44 


THE WEDDING BING. 


telling you so mucli. May I bring the lawyer 
here to-morrow afternoon ? ” 

‘‘I am glad I heard it first from you,” 
she answered. ‘‘ Dear friend, you are my 
good angel.” 

Bream came again the following day, ac- 
companied by a gray-haired, fatherly old 
gentleman of precise and methodical man- 
ner, whom he introduced as Mr. Probyn. 

“ Of the firm of Grice, Probyn, & Davies, 
Old Jewry,” added the solicitor. “I have 
the honor of addressing Mrs. Philip 
O’ Mara?” 

“That is my name,” said Gillian. 

“Otherwise Gillian Scott, only child of 
the late John Scott, doctor of medicine, of 
Merton Barnett, Shropshire?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you remember your father having 
referred, in your presence, to a brother, 
Bobert Scott?” 

“Yes, he was my father’s younger 
brother. He went out to Australia before 
I was born.” 

“Quite so,” said Mr. Probyn, referring 
to some memoranda. “In the year 1849. 
There were money transactions between 
them after Bobert Scott left England.” 

“I believe so. My uncle was not sue- 


THE CLOUD BREAKS. 


45 


cessful in his business, and on more than 
one occasion he applied to my father for 
assistance.” 

“Quite so,” said Mr. Probyn again. “I 
am happy to state, however, that his bad 
luck did not last. He died on the 3d of 
February of the x>resent year, a widower 
and childless. I have here an attested copy 
of his will.” 

He unfolded the document, and, perching 
a pair of gold-rimmed glasses on the ex- 
treme tip of his nose, scanned it at arm’s 
length. 

“‘I, Robert Scott’ — h’ni (need scarcely 
trouble you with mere formalities) — ‘ do 
hereby give, bequeath and devise all prop- 
erty whatsoever of which I die jjossessed, 
after the payment of my just debts, to Gil- 
lian, only daughter of my late beloved 
brother, John Scott, of Merton Barnett, in* 
the county of Shropshire, England.’ The 
personalty has been sworn under £20,000, 
and will be transferred to your account in 
London on the completion of the legal 
forms necessary in such cases. There is 
also some land in the neighborhood of Syd- 
ney, of which you would have no difficulty 
of disposing, if so minded, though we are 
advised by our correspondents, the solid- 


46 


THE WEDDING BING. 


tors of the late Mr. Scott, that it is steadily 
rising in value, and is, therefore, probably 
worth retaining. Those and other details 
can be arranged at your convenience. 
Meanwhile, madam,” the old gentleman 
rose and made a cordially stately bow, “I 
have the pleasure to wish you joy of your 
good fortune.” 


CHAPTER V. 


SUMMER DAYS 


WO gentlemen attired in clerical cos- 



-L tumes were walking together along a 
pleasant lane, bordered on one hand by a 
long line of lofty elms, swathed to mid- 
height in trailing ivy, and on the other by a 
low hedge, odorous with wild roses, over 
which was visible a wide reach of the 
rich pasture lands of Essex, shining in a 
checkered pattern of deep emerald and dull 
gold. It was verging on a midsummer even- 
ing, and both time and place were beautiful 
in deep serenity. 

One of the wayfarers was considerably his 
companion’s superior in years. He was a 
hale, ruddy-faced gentleman of sixty or so, 
portly and comfortable of presence, and very 
lightly touched by time, save that his hair, 
which he wore rather longer than is the 
fashion of the present day, was snow white. 

He had a mild, clear eye, and his habitual 
expression was one of rather absent-minded 


48 


THE WEDDING BING. 


benevolence. Some peculiarities of his dress, 
which was dusty with long walking in the 
summer lanes, and which, though of the last 
cut and the finest material, had a lack 
of complete neatness which proclaimed its 
wearer a bachelor, gave the learner in such 
matters the idea that the Reverend Marma- 
duke Herbert was a High Churchman. 

His companion, something over twenty 
years his junior, we have met before. Time 
had dealt not unkindly with Mr. Bream, as 
it does with all men of simple lives who 
regard existence as a sacred gift in trust 
from a great Master, and are zealous to give 
a good account of its utmost minute. His 
cheerfully resolute face and manly figure 
were as of old, and only the thinnest possible 
lines of gray in his thick brown hair pro- 
claimed the passage of seven years since we 
last met him. 

“We will close our round of visits. 
Bream,” the elderly clergyman was saying 
in a full and genial voice, “at Mrs. Dart- 
mouth’s, who will, I daresay, give us a cup 
of tea. I expect you to be— ah ! charmed 
with Mrs. Dartmouth, Bream. A most ami- 
able and admirable lady.” 

“ I shall be happy to make her acquaint- 
ance, sir.” 


SUMMER DATS. 


49 


“A most superior woman,” said Mr. Her- 
bert, “and a true — all! daughter of the 
church. She is a widow, with one child. A 
daughter. When she first came among us, 
some six or seven years ago this summer, 
there was — ah ! she excited considerable 
interest.” 

“Indeed ? ” 

“Yes, she had, if I may so express my- 
self, the — ah ! the charm of mystery. No- 
body knew who she was, or whence she 
came. In a small community like ours in 
Crouchford a stranger is likely to excite — 
ah ! comment. That, however, passed away 
—and Mrs. Dartmouth was accepted as what 
she is, my dear Bream, a most amiable and 
accomplished lady.” 

Mr. Bream again expressed his pleasure at 
the prospect of making Mrs. Dartmouth’s 
acquaintance. 

“That,” said Mr. Herbert, pointing with 
the polished stick of ebony he carried in his 
hand to a cluster of red brick chimneys visi- 
ble above the trees, “ is her home. We are 
now passing the outskirts of her freehold. 
She farms her own acres — an excellent wo- 
man of business.” 

The line of elms had given place to a 
twisted hedge, separated from the high road 


50 


THE WEDDING RING. 


by a deep ditcli. As the two friends walked 
on, a little shower of wild field blossoms fell 
at their feet and a light childish laugh drew 
their eyes to a spot where, the hedge being 
thinner, the figure of a little girl in a white 
summer dress, touched here and there with 
fluttering pink ribbons, was standing above 
them. 

“Ah, little mischief!” cried the elder 
cleric. “You are there. We are going to 
call upon mamma. Is she at home ? ” 

“ Yes,”iinswered the child, looking shyly 
at Mr. Bream, “mamma is at home.” 

“That is well. This, Bora,” continued 
Mr. Herbert, “is Mr. Bream, who has come 
to Crouchford to be my curate. As I am 
introducing you to your parishioners. Bream, 
let me seize th — ah ! opportunity, and pre- 
sent you Miss Bora Bartmouth, the Rever- 
end Mr. John Bream.” 

The little girl bowed with a wonderfully 
demure aspect, and then, fearful of her own 
gravity, said “ ITl go and tell mamma,” 
and was off at the word, like a flash of 
varicolored light among the bushes. 

“ A pretty child,” said Bream. 

“ A delightful little thing, my dear Bream. 
A real child, a rarity nowadays. The pre- 
cocious infant is— ah ! unendurable, and its 


SUMMER BAYS. 


51 


commonness is one of the saddest features 
of the degeneracy of our times,” 

Mr. Bream had an almost imiierceptible 
dry smile at moments, and it crossed his face 
now. 

A wooden gate, set in a red brick wall, and 
leading to a short, graveled carriage drive, led 
to the house, a pretty and pleasant two story 
building, swathed about to its chimney cowls 
in rose vine and creepers. A glass-roofed 
veranda ran the entire length of the house, 
supported on square wooden pillars, and 
covered also with the same sweet smelling 
growths. The still summer air was heavy 
with their breath. 

A fire of roses, roses white and red and 
pink and yellow, burned on the lawn before 
the house, and sun-smitten roses glowed like 
lamps all over its front. The door stood 
open, and Mr. Herbert entered, like a fre- 
quent guest certain of his welcome. 

Bream, following him, found himself in a 
wide, old-fashioned entrance hall, occupying 
the whole depth of the house back to the 
open French windows leading to a second 
and wider lawn. A mighty chestnut tree, 
in full leaf, stood in its center, and on either 
hand it was bounded by the sweeping curve 
of the shrubbery, through a wide gap of 


52 


THE WEDDING RING. 


which the corner of a hayrack and fields of 
tall green wheat were visible. 

The hall was solidly and comfortably fur- 
nished as a reception room, and on the left a 
door led to another apartment ; on the right 
was a huge open chimney, with a wide tiled 
hearth and wooden settles. The place was 
a curious and pleasant mixture of old 
architecture and modern conveniences, and 
of old and modern decorations. Strange 
monsters, born of the fancies of Chinese and 
Japanese artists, encumbered the high mantle 
shelf, and delicately colored fans and ex- 
otic plaques of earthenware shone against 
the fully polished black oak of the walls. 

‘‘ What a delightful room ! ” said Bream. 

Mr. Herbert, with a sigh of content, sank 
his portly frame into an arm-chair. 

‘‘ I shall really be very glad of a cup of 
tea,” he remarked. 

“ Dora ! ” called a clear feminine voice, on 
the lawn outside. “ Dora, my darling ! ” 

Dora’s voice was heard in answer from a 
distance, and a quick patter of light feet on 
a gravel path showed that she and her un- 
seen summoner were close to the open 
French window. Bream, who had taken a 
seat behind his vicar, started and stared 
with a sudden wonder and doubt in his face. 


SUMMER DAYS. 


53 


Mr. Herbert, flicking the dust from his shoes 
and gaiters with his pocket handkerchief, 
took no notice of these signs of perturba- 
tion. 

“Go and tell Johnson,’’ the voice pro- 
ceeded, “to pick some strawberries for 
tea.” 

“ Oh, mamma, can I help ? ” 

“I think you had much better not,” said 
the voice. “ You had better go to Barbara, 
and get her to dress you. Look at your 
shoes, and oh, what hands ! There, run 
away and tell Johnson.” 

The little feet were heard fading in the 
distance. 

“Am I mad?” Bream asked of himself, 
“or dreaming? I would know that voice 
among a thousand.” 

A lady, clad, like the child to whom she 
had been overheard speaking, in a white 
summer dress, entered at the open window 
and glided toward the two visitors. Bream’s 
face, as he rose, was against the light, and 
only dim ly visible. Mr. Herbert had stepped 
forward to their hostess. 

“ I have taken the liberty ” he began. 

“ Which is not at all a liberty, to begin 
with,” said Mrs. Dartmouth, with a pleasant 
smile. 


54 


THE WEDDING RING. 


“Thank you — I have done myself the 
honor, let me say, to make known to you 
the Eeverend Mr. Bream, my future assist- 
ant in the duties of my parish. You will 
remember that I mentioned his name to you 
a day or two ago.’’ 

“I remember very well,” said Mrs. Dart- 
mouth, extending her hand frankly to 
Bream. He took it with a curious clumsi- 
ness. “Welcome to Crouchford, Mr. Bream. 
You are here,” she said to Mr. Herbert, 
“ just in time for tea.” 

“Then I am here, Mrs. Dartmouth,’’ said 
the reverend gentleman, “ just at the time I 
wanted to arrive at. We have had a long 
walk and the roads are — ah ! dusty.” 

“It is laid on the lawn. Will you come 
out? 

She led the way to where, under the 
spreading shade of the great chestnut tree, a 
table gleamed, set with the whitest of cloths 
and the prettiest of glass and china, to which a 
stout, homely, brown-faced woman of thirty, 
dressed in a neat cotton print in contrast 
with the ruddy brown of her face and her bare 
arms, was just putting the finishing touches. 

“That’ll do, Barbara, thank you,” said 
her mistress. “Will you see that Miss Dora 
changes her shoes ? ” 


SUMMER DAYS. 


55 


Barbara, with a courtesy to the reverend 
gentlemen, which Mr. Herbert repaid with a 
fatherly nod and smile, and Bream passed 
unheeded, went into the house. 

“Mr. Herbert tells me, Mr. Bream,’’ said 
Mrs. Dartmouth, when the little party were 
seated in the rustic chairs set about the table, 
“ that your last curacy was in London — in 
Westminster, I think ? ” 

“ Yes,” Bream answered. 

“You will find this a pleasant change, I 
hope ; the country is really delightful in this 
neighborhood.” 

Bream, a little more collected, replied, 
“Beautiful, indeed.” 

“Bream,” said Mr. Herbert, “is hardly 
altogether a stranger here. He is, to a cer- 
tain extent — ah ! enpays de connaissance. 
He is an old friend of Sir George Yene- 
bles.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Mrs. Dartmouth. “ You 
know Sir George, Mr. Bream ?” 

“We are old friends. We were at Rugby 
together, and at one time were inseparable. 
We have seen little of each other of late, 
from many causes. I believe he has spent 
most of the last five years almost entirely 
abroad. I have to thank him for my ap- 
pointment as curate here, for it was he who 


56 


THE WEDDING RING. 


introduced me to Mr. Herbert and induced 
him to engage me.” 

“ Sir George and I are old friends. I was 
his tenant, here, before he consented to allow 
me to buy the freehold,” said Mrs. Dart- 
mouth. 

Dora arriving at this instant with an 
enormous glass dish of strawberries, and 
Barbara following her with the teapot, Mrs. 
Dartmouth busied herself in distributing the 
materials of the pleasant meal, additionally 
pleasant amid such surroundings. Had Mr. 
Herbert been a man of quick observation, 
which he decidedly was not, his curate’s 
strangeness of manner since their hostess’s 
appearance could hardly have escaped him. 
They had made many visits together that 
day, and Mr. Bream had come through them 
all with flying colors, and was at that mo- 
ment being lauded in a dozen Crouchford 
households as a delightful companion. 
Here, he was decidedly stiff and embarrassed, 
and though he had recovered from the first 
shock of the condition with which he had 
met Mrs. Dartmouth, he was still constrained 
in voice and manner, looked harder and 
longer at the lady than was altogether polite 
or necessary. 

Mrs. Dartmouth seemed quite at ease 


SUMMER DATS. 


51 


under his scrutiny, unless a livelier flush of 
color on her face, which might have been 
equally accounted for by the heat or by the 
shade of the large pink Japanese umbrella 
attached to the back of the chair she sat in, 
was called there by his protracted reading 
of her features. She addressed her conver- 
sation, after the beginning of the meal, 
mainly to Mr. Herbert, who answered with 
a rather high-flown clerical gallantry in 
the intervals of absorbing a vast amount 
of tea, now and then bringing Bream into 
the talk, until after awhile he found his 
tongue and his forgotten manners simultane- 
ously, and came into it himself, naturally 
and easily. 

The shadows lengthened on the green as 
they sat and talked, when Barbara came to 
her mistress’s side with a card. She bent 
her head for a moment to her visitors, and 
after glancing at it said to Barbara : 

‘‘Certainly, ask him to join us here, and 
bring another cup and saucer. Sir George 
Venebles,” she announced to her visitors. 
“You have not met him since you arrived, 
Mr. Bream ? ” 

“No,” said Bream, “though T have a 
standing invitation to the Lodge. I expect 
I shall get a blowing up for not having 


58 


THE WEDDING BING. 


availed myself of it on my first coming 
here.” 

Barbara appeared, followed by the new- 
comer. Sir George Yenebles was a man in 
the early thirties ; one of those happy people 
who seem to radiate health as a lantern does 
light. He had the fair skin, bronzed by con- 
stant exercise in the fresh air, and the light 
brown hair commoji among Englishmen of 
pure strain. He was, as he looked, as hard 
as nails all over, and had not an ounce 
of superfiuous fiesh anywhere about him, 
though his breadth was rather more than pro- 
portionate to his height, which was five feet 
eleven in his stocking feet. He wore a short 
clipped mustache and a crisp brown beard 
of a golden bronze tinge, which admirably 
finished a face more remarkable for its evi- 
dences of health, pluck, and kindliness than 
for accurate beauty of line, though he was a 
handsome fellow too. Judged even by that 
standard. He was dressed in cords and 
spurred boots, literally powdered by the 
dust of the road, and carried a riding crop. 

“You’re a pretty fellow, don’t you 
think,” he asked Bream, after greeting Mrs. 
Dartmouth, “ to have been more than twenty- 
four hours in the place and never to have 
given me a call. I called at your diggings 


SUMMER DATS. 


59 


just now— just fancy, Mrs. Dartmouth, he’s 
gone and taken Mrs. Jones’s first floor, over 
the Supply Stores in the High Street, when 
he might have had the free run of the Lodge 
as long as he liked.” 

“I shall come over there presently,” an- 
swered Bream. ‘‘It’s a maxim of mine 
to work upward, not downward. When I 
know all the polloi of the district I shall 
claim acquaintance with the lord of the 
manor.” 

“Do I belong to the oi polloi asked 
Mrs. Dartmouth, a question which created a 
diversion by sending Mr. Herbert’s tea the 
wrong way. 


CHAPTER YI. 


MES. DAETMOUTH. 

ri^HE meal finished, Mrs. Dartmouth rose 
JL and invited her guests to a stroll about 
the grounds. 

In the dead quiet of the evening air the 
trees stood silent, no breath of wind waked 
their leaves to the faintest rustle. The sun 
was sinking in a placid splendor of rose and 
gold, and in the opposing heavens the cres- 
cent moon was faintly glimmering in an 
ocean of tender sapphire. A riot of birds 
came from the winding borkage, — black- 
cap and thrush, and linnet and blackbird 
merrily piping their adieu to the departing 
sun. The little party passed through the 
gap in the semicircle of trees on to a broad 
garry terrace, separating the house domain 
from the farm. 

They had split into two groups. Sir 
George and Mr. Herbert, and Mrs. Dart- 
mouth and Bream, while little Dora flitted 
from one to the other, and from bush to bush, 
like a butterfiy. 


60 


ME8. DARTMOUTH. 


61 


‘‘ Mr. Bream,” said Mrs. Dartmontli, when 
they had got beyond earshot of the others, 
‘‘I have to beg your forgiveness. Believe 
me, I do most sincerely.” 

‘‘ For what ? ” asked Bream. 

“ For taking no farewell of the only friend 
I had, seven years ago.” 

- ‘ ‘ Surely, Mrs. O’ M , I beg pardon, Mrs. 

Dartmouth, you have no need to ask my 
forgiveness for that. You have, I suppose, 
in common with other people, the right to 
choose your own acquaintances.” 

“Ah,” said Mrs. Dartmouth, “let there 
be no conventional j)hrases between us ! I 
acted wrongly, and I have repented of it 
many a time. When I heard from Mr. Her- 
bert and Sir George that you were coming 
here I was glad, not merely at the prospect 
of renewing an old acquaintance, but of 
apologizing and explaining, if you think my 
explanation worth listening to.” 

“I cannot see that you have anything to 
apologize for,” said Bream, “but I shall be 
glad to hear anything you have to say.” 

“You cannot know,” said Mrs. Dart- 
mouth, “even your sympathy cannot guess, 
what I suffered before and during the time 
you knew me in London. I look back on 
that time now as a soul escaped from purga- 


62 THE WEDDING MING. 

tory might be supposed to look back on its 
experience there. I wonder that I came out 
of it with life and reason. It was only last 
night — perhaps the mention of your name 
and the knowledge that you were coming 
here may account for it — I dreamed that I 
was back in Westminster, and I woke, cry- 
ing and sobbing like a child. I woke in 
that way often for months after I had left 
London. All that time comes back upon 
me as a hideous nightmare. I have set my- 
self resolutely to forget it — striven hard to 
banish any thought of it from my mind, 
but every detail is as clear in my memory 
to-day as if it had all happened only a week 
or two ago. I cannot even look at my child, 
healthy and strong as she is, thank God, 

without remembering ” She passed her 

hand across her eyes, as if to clear away 
some shadow that offended them. 

“Why distress yourself by recalling it ? ” 
said Bream. 

“ Because the only way for you to forgive 
me my ingratitude is by your knowing, as 
much as any one, other than myself, can 
know, what a mad desire I had to cancel, 
to root out, destroy, cast aside, all that 
reminded me of that time. My one desire 
was ’to get free of it, to get beyond it all, to 


Mns. DARTMOITTB. 


63 


persuade myself, if possible, that it had 
never been. I passed the first year of my 
freedom abroad, moving from place to place, 
trying, in the bustle and movement of 
travel, to forget. Forget ! How could I, 
when the one thing in the world that was 
left me to love, my little Dora, brought 
back memories of that time at every minute 
of the day ? The very pleasure I felt in see- 
ing her grow back to health recalled the 
agony I had known in seeing her dying — 
dying of hunger, Mr. Bream, as you saw 
her.’’ 

No hardness of voice or passion of gesture 
gave any force to her speech. They were 
not needed. Her voice throbbed as an even 
note of pain, her face was white, her eyes 
looked straight before her with sometliing 
of the wild look Bream remembered in them 
seven years ago in the garret in Westmin- 
ster, when he had warned her that Dora’s 
life was in danger. 

‘‘I returned to England — not to London. 
I have never entered London since that day 
I left the hospital, and with God’s help I 
never will. I resolved to try some kind of 
occupation, some steady daily task, some 
work that must be done at its appointed 
hour, and see if that would not banish the 


64 


TBE wEDDim mm. 


memories wliicli had clung to me all over 
the continent. This house and farm were 
advertised to let. I am country bred, and 
had passed most of my early years on a 
farm, and a longing for the dear old inno- 
cent life, for the fields and woods where I 
had been so happy as a child, came back to 
me. I took the farm, at first on a lease, 
and threw my whole heart into its manage- 
ment. The experiment succeeded ; well 
enough, at least, to give me hope that it 
might succeed altogether if I gave it time. 
Sir George consented to sell me the place, — 
it is an outlying piece of property, bought 
by his father only a few years ago, — and 
since then I have remained here, working, 
and educating Dora. You are the only 
person in the world, Mr. Bream, who knows 
my secret. I know that I have no need to 
ask you to keep it, but I do ask you to 
pardon my ingratitude in being silent all 
these years.” 

‘^Are you quite sure,” asked Bream, 
“ that you have been silent? ” 

She looked at him questioning! y. 

‘‘Do you remember the date on which you 
left the hospital ? It was the 8th of April. 
On the 8th of April of every year I have 
received a £50 note, with a slip of paper, 


MBS. DARTMOUTH. 


65 


bearing the words, ‘ For the poor of your 
parish, from a friend grateful for past kind- 
ness.’ It was not your hand, but I have 
always thought it came from you.” 

“Yes,” she said quietly. “It came from 
me. Conscience money, Mr. Bream.” 

“More than enough,” said Bream, “to 
buy you all the absolution you ever needed. 
I hardly required your explanation ;. I under- 
stood from the first. I am sorry that cir- 
cumstance has brought me here, since my 
presence awakens such unwelcome memo- 
ries.” 

“Do not think that,” she answered. 
“ Since I have never forgotten, you cannot 
charge it to yourself that you have made me 
remember. You are as welcome to me now, 
as you will be, before long, to every one of 
your parishioners. ’ ’ 

It was some little time before silence was 
broken between them again. Then Bream 
asked : 

“You have never had any news of — him f ’ ’ 

He shrank from mentioning O’ Mara’s 
name, remembering that she had avoided it. 

“None whatever.” 

“You have made no inquiries, caused 
none to be made?” 

“ Gfod forbid ! ” 


66 


THE WEDDING RING. 


‘‘But is that wise? You maybe a free 
woman now ; not free merely in the sense 
of his absence, but for altogether, — by his 
death.’’ 

“It is best,” she said, “to let sleeping 
dogs lie. Besides, in what direction could 
I look for news? He disappeared utterly, 
leaving not the smallest trace. And it is 
seven years ago.” 

“ It is some comfort,” said Bream, “that 
the scoundrel committed his greatest vil- 
lainy just at that moment; and when he 
thought he was shifting a burden from his 
shoulders was, in reality, robbing himself of 
a fortune.” 

She made no answer to his remark. They 
had reached the end of a long shaded alley. 
They turned, and she held out her hand. 

“Then — we are friends again, Mr. Bream ?” 

“We were never anything else,” he an- 
swered, as he took the proffered hand. “ I 
have never thought of you all the time but 
with respect and pity. I am glad, gladder 
than I can tell you, that the need for pity is 
past, and that you are happy at last.” 

“Yes,” she said, looking wistfully down 
at the summer snow of acacia leaves with 
which the path was strewn, “I suppose I 
am as happy as one has a right to expect to 


MBS. DARTMOUTH. 


67 


be in this world. But that is enough of me 
and my affairs. Tell me of yourself. What 
have you been doing all this long time V’ 

‘‘Really,” he said, “I have nothing to 
tell. Coming here has been the only event 
in my life since we last met.” 

“Well,” she said, “I suppose men are 
like nations — and those are happiest that 
have no history.” 

“We all have histories,” he said, “of 
one sort or another. Mine is finished for 
the present at least.” 

She remembered the words later, though 
they had little enough meaning for her at 
the moment. Her other guests came in 
sight, Mr. Herbert and Sir George Yenebles 
strolling side by side, the latter with Dora 
perched upon his shoulder, like a tropical 
bird, busy in weaving wildflowers about his 
hat. 

“There,” said Sir George, depositing her 
on the ground, “you’ve had a long ride, 
and I want to talk to Bream. He and I are 
old friends, you know.” 

“But I haven’t finished the hat,” said 
Dora, ■ pouting, “and I was making it so 
pretty.” 

“Very well. There’s the hat. Work 
your sweet will upon it,” he continued, 


68 


THE WEDDING BING. 


taking the curate’s arm, and drawing him 
apart from Mrs. Dartmouth and Mr. Herbert. 
“ Have you any engagement to-night?” 

“Nothing that I know of, unless Mr. 
Herbert should want me.” 

“Then come over to the Lodge and dine 
with me, there’s a good fellow, and stay till 
morning. Why on earth you wanted to go 
and stick yourself into that hole in the vil- 
lage, when you might have come and put up 
with me, is more than I can understand.” 

“It is nearer my work, for one thing,” 
said Bream. “I want to get to know my 
parishioners, and to be within easy call of 
the vicar, until I have learned the routine of 
the place. But I’ll come over to-night and 
dine with you.” 

“Good ! ” said Sir George, clapping him 
on the shoulder, “I’ll get Mrs. Dartmouth 
to lend you a horse, and send it back in the 
morning by a groom. It will be like old 
times having you about me again, old fellow. 
I’ m devilish solitary, all alone in that great 
rambling place since the old man died.” 

“Solitude,” said the curate, “is not an 
incurable disorder, I should think, for a 
man with ten thousand a year, and one of 
the best estates and oldest names in the 
country.” 


MBS. DARTMOUTH. 


69 


Sir George made no answer, but flicked at 
his boot with his riding-whip in an absent- 
minded fashion. 

“You seem to have been getting on very 
well with Mrs. Dartmouth,” he said ab- 
ruptly. “What do you think of her?” 

“She seems a very pleasant, amiable 
woman,” answered Bream, rather con- 
strainedly. “ She bought this place from 
you, she tells me” ; he continued, merely 
for the sake of saying something to continue 
the conversation. 

“Yes,” said Sir George. “ I sold her the 
place. Pretty, isn’t it ? ” 

“ Yery pretty.” 

Their talk languished after this, though 
they were old and close friends, who had not 
met for seven years. Bream’s mind was 
busy with the matter of his recent talk with 
Mrs. Dartmouth, and Sir George walked 
beside him in a moody silence, slapping his 
boot at intervals. 

“It is time we were going,” he said at 
last, referring to his watch. They turned 
and rejoined Mrs. Dartmouth. 

“Bream is going over to the Lodge to dine 
with me, sir, if you have no objection,” said 
Sir George to the vicar. 

“ By no means, ’ ’ said Mr. Herbert. ‘ ‘ Our 


YO 


THE WEDDING RING. 


work for the day is over. You will meet 
me at the school to-morrow morning at 
eleven, Bream.’’ 

“lam mounted,” said Sir George, “and 
Bream is not. I wonder, Mrs. Dartmouth, 
if you would lend him a horse until the 
morning? You could ride him back your- 
self, Bream.” 

“I will lend him Jerrica,” said Mrs. Dart- 
mouth. “ Barbara ! ” she called across the 
lawn to the servant, who was clearing away 
the table under the chestnut tree, “get 
Jerrica saddled for Mr. Bream.” 

They strolled back across the lawn, Dora 
chatting to Sir George as she added the 
finishing touches to the decorations of his 
hat, and getting absent-minded monosyl- 
lables in reply. 

“There,” she said, “now it’s lovely. 
Stoop down and I’ll put it on for you.” 

He stooped, obedient to the small tyrant, 
and, when she had put on the hat, took her 
up in his arms and kissed her. His somber 
face contrasted oddly with the festive ap- 
pearance of his headgear. 

“ What mal es you look so solemn ? ” she 
asked him. 

“ Do I look solemn ? ” he asked in return. 

“Oh, dreadful!” said Dora. “I can 


MBS. DARTMOUTH. 


71 


guess,’’ she added, “shall I? It’s because 
mamma was talking such a long time to the 
new gentleman, Mr. Bream, instead of to 
you. I saw you watching them.” 

Sir George blushed a fiery red, and shot a 
quick glance at the others to see if they 
showed signs of having noticed the wisdom 
of this precocious infant. 

“ Little girls shouldn’t talk nonsense,” he 
said severely. 

“I’m not little,” said Dora ; “I’m almost 
grown up. I’m eight. If you call me lit- 
tle again I’ll take the fiowers out of your 
hat.” 

This dread threat brought them to the house. 
Sir George was glad of the obscurity in the 
wide hall, which hid his still blushing face, 
and he lingered there, talking a little at 
random, till Jerrica and his own horse were 
announced as waiting. Then he gave Dora 
a final kiss, and shook hands with Mrs. 
Dartmouth and the vicar. 

“You surely are not going to ride home 
with those fiowers in your hat,” said the 
hostess. 

“ Till I get out of sight of the house,” he 
answered. “ It pleases Dora.” 

She laughed and turned to the curate. 

“Dora and I always take tea at five 


72 


THE WEDDING BING. 


o’clock,” she said, “ and we shall always be 
glad to see you.” 

He thanked her, and rode away with the 
baronet. The road was solitary, and they 
had gone a mile or more before Sir George 
untwined Dora’s garland. Even then he 
rode on with it in his hand for some dis- 
tance, and it was with an audible sigh that 
he let it fall from his fingers to the dust. 


CHAPTER VII. 


SIR GEORGE. 

T he two friends rode side by side, in 
silence for the most part, until they 
came to Crouchford Lodge, a venerable pile 
of building, of which the central and oldest 
portion was Elizabethan, and the two wings 
of the date of the first Charles and the 
second George respectively. 

It stood on a little eminence (quite a hill 
it seemed amid the fiat Essex meadows) and 
commanded a goodly view of the broad acres 
which owned Sir George as master. 

Dinner that evening was as dull a business 
as if the two companions, instead of being 
bosom friends who had not met for years, 
had been long since bored to death by each 
other’s society, and could find nothing to 
say. Bream, who had by this time got over 
his amazement at recognizing his old West- 
minster parishioner in Mrs. Dartmouth, 
made several attempts to lead his companion 
into conversation, but with little avail. Sir 
George woke up for a minute, only to fall 
73 


V 4 the wedding ring. 

back into his uneasy reserve. At last, when 
coffee had been served, and they were left 
alone with their cigars, the curate roundly 
challenged his friend as to the reason of his 
melancholy. 

“I may as well tell you,” said Yenebles. 
“ One gets a sort of relief sometimes by 
talking freely. But not here. Let us get 
out of doors into the fresh air.” 

They passed out together in the growing 
moonlight, and the baronet, at first with an 
obvious effort, but increasing ease as he con- 
tinued, unloosened himself to his old friend. 

“You asked me just now,” he said, “why 
I went abroad the year before last, and 
stayed away until two months ago. I’ll tell 
you. It was because I had asked Mrs. Dart- 
mouth to be my wife, and she had refused, 
and I thought that change of scene and 
occupation might help me to forget her.” 

“ She refused you,” repeated Bream. 

“ Yes.” 

“Did she ^ give any reason for the re- 
fusal ? ” 

“I asked her for a reason. She begged 
me to let the question go unanswered, but 
assured me that the reason was sufficient.” 

“Who is Mrs. Dartmouth?” asked 
Bream. 


sin GEOUQE. 


15 


It went against the honest openness of his 
nature to be guilty of even such innocent 
feigning as this, but he held the woman's 
secret in trust, and had bound himself in 
silence. Sir George was his oldest friend, 
and he must needs show sympathy for him 
in his trouble. 

“She is Mrs. Dartmouth,” answered the 
baronet. “That is all I know, and all I 
want to know, except for the last five years 
she has been the only woman in the world to 
me.” 

“ You know nothing of her antecedents ? ” 

“ Nothing whatever. She came here with 
her child five years ago, and took the farm 
through an agent. A year later she made 
personal overtures to buy it. My father was 
very unwilling to let it go, but I persuaded 
him, and he gave way. That was the be- 
ginning of a misunderstanding between us, 
which lasted to his death — the only one we 
ever had together. I was so infatuated with 
Gillian after my first meeting with her, that 
I couldn’t keep away from her, and my con- 
stant presence at the farm got to be the talk 
of the country. There was some scandal 
about it, I heard — the fools about here would 
talk scandal of an angel, I think.” 


76 


THE wEDDim mm. 


He paused, angrily striking his boots with 
his riding- whip. 

“Well, it came to my father’s ears, and 
he spoke of it to me, and warned me that I 
was damaging Mrs. Dartmouth’s reputation 
and hurting my own prospects. He had 
plans for me. Our neighbor. Sir James 
Dayne, had an only daughter, and the two 
estates run side by side. It was the old 
man’s dream to put a ring fence round them. 
He told me all this. I don’t know what I 
said, but I remember what I did. I jumped 
on horseback, and went over to Mrs. Dart- 
mouth, and asked her to marry hie. She 
refused, as I have already told you.” 

Bream listened, but expressed no surprise. 
Sir George continued ; 

“I was like a man dazed for weeks after, 
and then I had a severe illness — a brain 
fever. It was thought that I should die ; 
but I recovered. My father was very good 
about it ; he did not reproach me, or press 
me to obey his wishes in any direct way, for 
some time. I suppose he saw the case was 
desperate, and understood that his only 
chance was to give me time. After a while, 
he returned to the subject very delicately. 
He brought Miss Dayne and me together, 
and encouraged people, in a quiet way, to 


SIR GEORGE. 


11 


look on oTir union as certain. I suppose I 
gave him some right to do so, for I never 
mentioned Mrs. Dartmouth’s name for 
months, or went near her.” 

“ Wise, perhaps,” interrupted Bream. 

‘‘ Once I met her by accident, at a yeo- 
manry ball, and I am sure that no stranger 
who had seen our meeting would have dis- 
covered that there was anything between us 
but the most commonplace acquaintance. I 
seemed numbed, somehow, — as I felt once 
when I was pitched on my head out hunting, 
and got up and rode home. My father 
thought I was cured. I should have thought 
so, too, if I could have cared for anything, 
or felt any interest in life. Something like 
a tacit engagement was entered into with the 
Daynes. I was to go abroad and travel a 
little, and when I came back the engage- 
ment was to be made public, and we were to 
be married.” 

Sir George paused, with a gloomy frown, 
then proceeded : 

“ She — the girl — was a good, feeble, insig- 
nificant little creature, who would have mar- 
ried a laborer off her father’s fields if she 
had been ordered to do it. It was arranged 
that I should go away for a year. I started, 
and got as far as Paris, and then — God 


IS 


THE WEDDING RING. 


knows what idea I had in my poor head — I 
knew it was hopeless, and whether I was at 
home or at the North Pole it would make 
no difference ; but I came back, I could not 
bear to be away from her. My father saw 
that it was no further use to struggle with 
me, and gave in about Miss Dayne. He 
died a year later, and I succeeded to the 
title and the estates, and some months later 
I made a second proposal to Mrs. Dart- 
mouth.” 

“And then?” 

“ I learnt then, what I had never known 
before, that she loved me. She told me so. 
I begged her to tell me what was the obstacle 
that kept us apart, but she would not. She 
extracted a promise from me that I would go 
away from England for a short time, and 
that, come what might, she would marry no 
other man. I went and traveled all over the 
continent, and through America and Aus- 
tralia. I was away nearly two years, till I 
could stay away no longer. The absence 
did me a little good. I shall never cease to 
love her, but I have learned patience. I can 
meet her now as a friend, without making 
her unhappy by asking her for what she 
cannot give me. I am not very unhappy, 
except at moments, and I manage to keep 


Sm GEORGE. 


19 


my iinliappiness to myself, as a general 
thing. I potter about the estate, and attend 
Quarter Sessions, and all the rest of it, and 
I daresay some day I shall go into the House, 
and be a tolerable success as a country gen- 
tleman.” 

‘‘Have you no idea of her reason for re- 
fusing to marry you 

“ She gave me none. I can only guess. 
The likeliest guess I can make is that her 
husband is still alive. A nice brute he must 
have been to quarrel with an angel like that. 
By God, Bream, when you know her as I do ! 
She’s an angel. She’s been the sunlight of 
this place since she’s been here. You’ll hear 
what the poor say about her. They worship 
her, and no wonder. She’s the best friend 
they ever had.” 

“Do you see her often ? ” 

“No oftener than I can help,” he replied 
simply. “ I hadn’t been there for six weeks 
when I called to-day.” 

“You could hardly have liked my mo- 
nopolizing her as I did,” said Bream. 

“ I did not mind it,” answered Sir George, 
“lam glad to be near her, but it is as well, 
perhaps, that I should not be alone with her. 
I am not certain if I could trust myself to 
speak of —of things better left unspoken of.” 


80 


THE WEDDING BING. 


The anodyne which soothes the heart of 
one who has spoken of his secret trouble to 
a sympathetic listener had come to him, and 
he was more cheerful, more like his strong 
and hopeful self, whom Bream had known 
years ago, when they had been boys to- 
gether. They walked late under the moon- 
light, talked of many things, — old memories 
and future plans. Sir George was cheerful 
at breakfast, and saw his friend mount and 
start back to the village with jovial invita- 
tions to him to come again soon, and to stay 
a longer time. 

As Bream drew near Mrs. Dartmouth’s 
house, he saw approaching him the figure 
of a tall and strongly built man, clad in 
whcit seemed a peculiar compromise between 
the ordinary dress of a peasant and that of 
a sailor. He had on a pair of dilapidated 
longshore boots, reaching to mid-thigh, and 
splashed with mud of various hues, as were 
the corduroy trousers which surmounted 
them ; a blue fiannel shirt, with a carelessl}^ 
knotted fiaming red tie ; a ragged tweed 
jacket, and a broad felt sombrero. He 
seemed to be under the influence of liquor, 
for he was reeling and tacking from side to 
side of the road, and every now and then 
pausing to hold on to a tree branch. Think- 


SIR GEORGE. 


81 


ing that it was an early hour for the most 
faithful subject of La Dive Bouteille to be so 
nearly prostrate at her shrine, and wonder- 
ing if one so strangely garbed was merely 
a passing tramp or one of his parishion- 
ers, Bream turned in at Mrs. Dartmouth’s 
gate. 

The lady was on the lawn in front of the 
house, equipped with gardening gauntlets 
and a pair of shears, and engaged in trim- 
ming a rose bush, with Dora hovering about 
her. She gave him a pleasant greeting, and 
called to a gardener, at work at a little dis- 
tance, to take the mare round to the stable. 
They were chatting together as she con- 
tinued her work among the flowers, when a 
sudden cry of alarm from Dora made them 
both turn. There, in the gateway, stood 
the flgure which Bream had seen a few 
minutes before in the road. In the very 
moment in which Bream again caught sight 
of him, he set both hands to his head and 
with a long groan fell forward on the path, 
sending the gravel flying in a little shower 
about his prostrate flgure. 

Bream ran to him. He was lying, face 
downward, in an attitude of complete un- 
consciousness and self-abandonment. 

Turning him over as he raised his head, 


82 


THE WEDDING BING. 


the curate saw that he had altogether 
misread the man’s condition. He was not 
drunk, but clearly very ill. His face was 
blanched to the hue of chalk, his lips a dull 
violet, the half-opened lids showed the glar- 
ing and discolored whites of his eyes. The 
beating of his heart was scarcely sensible to 
the touch of Bream’s hand, and only his 
slow and stertorous breath betrayed that 
life was in him. 

“The man is seriously ill,” he answered 
to Mrs. Dartmouth’s rapid questions. “He 
has fainted from hunger.” 

“Poor wretch,” said Mrs. Dartmouth 
pityingly. “Can you not carry him into 
the hall? Tom will help you.” 

The gardener had returned, and lent a pair 
of strong and willing hands. The broken 
wayfarer was carried into the house, and set 
upon a chair, where he sat, lax as an un- 
strung marionette, supported by Bream’s 
arm.' 

“A bad business, I fear,” said the latter. 
“Could you let me have a little brandy, 
please?” 

A ring at the bell X3roduced Barbara, who 
went in search of the spirit, and stood by 
while Bream gently insinuated a teaspoon- 
ful into the man’s throat. He sighed, and 


SIR GEORGE. 


83 


a faint tinge of color flickered into his ashen 
cheeks. 

“ That’s better,” said Bream. Come, 
my lad, try another dose.” 

The second teaspoonful of liquor worked 
a marked change for the better in the man’s 
aspect and condition. The color in his face 
deepened, his eyes opened, and after letting 
them wander for a moment he flxed them 
on Mrs. Dartmouth. His lips stirred with a 
broken murmur, and he made a wandering 
movement with his arm, meant, perhaps, for 
a phrase of thanks and a salute, though no 
word was distinguishable, and his arm fell 
heavily by his side again. 

‘‘Is there any workhouse or asylum that 
would take the poor fellow in^’ asked 
Bream. 

‘'None nearer than Stortford,” answered 
Mrs. Dartmouth, “ and that is twelve miles 
away. Is he very ill ? ” 

“Too ill to stand such a journey,” said 
Bream. “He is almost exhausted. What 
is to be done ? ” 

“We must give him shelter here, I sup- 
pose. It would be inhuman to turn him out 
upon the road again.” 

“Eh, misses,” said Barbara, “but he is 
such a rough lookin’ chap.” 


84 


THE WEDDING RING, 


“ It may be a long business/’ said Bream, 
“he has evidently only partially recovered 
from a severe illness, possibly an infectious 
disorder.” 

“There is a loft over the stable,” said 
Mrs. Dartmouth, “where the groom used to 
live before his cottage was finished. He 
would be quite safe there.” 

“Lord save us, misses,” again interposed 
Barbara, “we shall all be murdered in our 
beds ! ” 

“Not by this fellow,” said Bream, “for 
a time at any rate. He hasn’t the strength 
to murder a fiy. Whatever is to be done, 
should be done quickly.” 

“We cannot turn him out,” said Mrs. 
Dartmouth again, “that would be too shame- 
ful. Will you help Tom to carry him to the 
loft, Mr. Bream ; and please tell we what 
food he should have.” 

“Soup — not too strong. A spoonful every 
half-hour. Now, Tom, my man, take his 
legs. So ! You had better come with us. 
Miss Barbara, to see that the room is in 
order.” 

Barbara followed, a mute protest expressed 
in her face, and Bream and the gardener 
bore their patient to the loft. It was not 
until they had got him there that Bream 


Sm GEORGE. 


85 


noticed a ragged and dirty scrap of paper 
clenched in the man’s hand. It seemed as 
if, even in his mental prostration and physi- 
cal exhaustion, he blindly attached some 
value to it, for he feebly resented the 
curate’s effort to take it from his fingers. 

On it was written, in thin, rusty ink, in 
straggling, formless characters, these words : 

Barbara Leigh, 

Crouchford Court, Crouchford, Essex. 

He read the words aloud, and was electri- 
fied by a sudden scream from the woman at 
his side. 

“ Lord sakes, it’s Jake ! ” 

‘‘ Jake ! ” said Bream, “ you know him ? ” 

‘‘ Know him ? He’s my own very brother- 
in-law— Jake Owen, as married my sister 
,ten years ago and took her to Ameriky ! ” 


CHAPTER YIII. 


JAKE OWEN. 

‘‘ “TAKE ! ’’ said Barbara, kneeling beside 

^ the bed. “Eh, Jake, lad, to think 
as I’d ha’ turned thee out on to the road 
again, like a starvin’ dog ! Lord forgive 
me for my wicked sin. Jake, don’t ee know 
me ? I be Jess’s sister — Jess, as you married, 
Jake.” 

The repetition of the name stirred the 
traveler. His eyes, which had been fixed 
upon the ceiling with a meaningless and 
glassy stare, grew brighter, the rigid lines of 
his face softened. 

“ Jake ! ” said Barbara again, “ won’t ee 
speak to me, lad ? ” 

The fingers which had held the paper 
fumbled feebly on the counterpane, as if 
seeking for it. Jake turned his head and 
saw Barbara kneeling beside him. 

“Who be you,” he asked; “where am 
I?” 

“I’m Barbara Leigh,” she said, letting 
his second question pass unanswered. 

86 


.JAKE OWEN. 


87 


“{Barbara Leigli/’ he repeated ; “let’s see 
thy face. Aye, Barbara Leigh. Jess’s sis- 
ter.” 

“ Yes, yes, Jess’s sister. What brings ee 
here ? ” 

“I’ve come,” said Jake, slowly and with 
.difficulty, “to see ye, and bring ye a mes- 
sage. How did I come here ? Where did 
ye find me ? Ah, I remember ! I was at 
the gate when my head went round, and I 
seemed death-struck, and then — what place 
is this?” 

“Crouchford Court,” answered Barbara ; 
“I’m servant here. Ye had the name wrote 
on this paper.” 

“Ah!” said Jake, recognizing it. “I 
wrote it myself, two days agone, when I left 
London, after I’d first felt the deadness 
coming over me, so as folks might know as 
I had friends, and belonged somewhere. 
Who’s this?” he asked, with a gesture of 
the head toward Mr. Bream, who stood 
quietly attentive at the bedside. 

“It’s Mr. Bream, Jake, the curate of the 
parish, as found ye at the gate and brought 
you here.” 

“ Sarvice t’ye, sir,” said Jake, “though 
I’d rather see ye in a coat of another 
color.” 


88 


THE WEDDING BING. 


“Aye?” said Bream, “and why so, my 
good fellow ? ” 

“ Why,” answered the wayfarer, “ they 
say where black coats gather they be like 
ravens, and scent death. But I won’t die 
yet, no— by God— not till I’ve done my 
work ! ” 

“ You’ll live to do plenty of work yet, my 
friend, if you’ll take care and not excite 
yourself.” 

“Bless you, sir, for them words!” said 
Barbara. 

“You’ve had a long tramp?” said Bream. 

“Aye, all the way from London. Three 
nights and days on the road. I’ m sore spent, 
but there’s life in me yet.” 

“ There is, indeed,” said Bream, looking 
at him with interest. 

There was a galvanic vitality in the man. 
Five minutes ago he had seemed almost on 
the point of death ; now his voice, though 
weak, was firm, and his pale face was full of 
a restless energy. “ You’ll come through all 
right, but you must be quiet, and not excite 
yourself. You’ve had brain fever.” 

“Ay!” said Jake. “That’s what they 
called it aboard ship. But I want to talk to 
Barbey, and, begging your pardon ” 

“You want me to go ? Well, so I will in 


JAKE OWEN. 


89 


a minute. Let me feel your pulse. Are you 
hungry?” 

“ I was a while ago ! ” 

‘‘ Some soup will be here in a little while. 
See that he eats moderately, Barbara. He is 
not so ill as I supposed, but he must be care- 
ful. ril look in again toward evening. 
Keep your heart up, my fine fellov/, and 
you’ll soon be on your legs again.” 

“Thankee, sir,” said Jake, “for what 
you’ve done, and my sarvice to Barbey’s 
missis.” 

“Tell me,” said Barbara, when the door 
had closed behind Mr. Bream, “tell me 
about Jess. Where is she? Is she come 
back to England wi’ you ? ” 

“Nay,” said Jake, “she’ll come back to 
England no more, my lass.” 

“Jake!” said Barbara, “can’t ee speak 
plain ? What is it as ye’re trying to hide 
from me ?” 

“She’s dead,” said Jake. 

“ Dead 1 ” said Barbara. 

“Ay,” said Jake, staring at the ceiling. 
“She’s dead and buried. She died in my 
arms.” 

“ I can’t believe it,” said Barbara ; “eh, 
Jake, ye’re lying, I doubt for sport. Say as 
ye are.” 


90 


THE wEDBim mm. 


“It’s the God’s truth,” said the man.* 
“ She died i’ my arms, out yonder. Look 
me i’ the face, Barbey, — did you have no 
word from her — no news o’ what happened 
ere she died ? ” 

“Not a word,” said Barbara. “Not a 
word have I had from her for twelve months 
and more. The last letter I got said as she 
was well and happy, and that you was good 
to her ! ” 

“Better to her, may be, than she de- 
served,” said Jake. 

‘ ‘ What d’ ye mean ? ’ ’ said Barbara. “ I’ d 
claw the face of any other man as said a 
word agen my sister. Speak out, straight 
and open, like a man ! ” 

“ She left me,” said Jake. 

“ Left ye, how left ye ? ” 

“ She went off with another man.” 

“No, no!” cried Barbara, covering her 
face with her hands, as if to shut out some 
horrible vision. 

“Ay,” said Jake, “that was the end of 
it. That was what came of nine years of 
happy married life. Good to her! She 
might well say that, Barbey, and more to 
the back of it. Good to her ! I loved the 
ground she trod on — the thing she touched. 
I’d ha’ put my hand in the fire to save her 


JAKE OWEN. 


91 


from the finger-ache. And she loved me, 
too — till he came.’’ 

“ He ? ” repeated Barbara. 

“ Ay, the man she bolted with.” He lay 
looking at the ceiling with the same nn- 
winking stare, and then said softly, but with 
an indescribable intonation of hate and 
loathing, “ Damn him ! ” 

Barbara sat silent for a time, rocking her 
body quietly to and fro, till suddenly she 
broke into loud weeping. 

“ Ay, lass,” said Jake, with the same evil- 
sounding quiet in his voice, ‘‘I’ve done that, 
too, but it didn’t fetch her back.” 

Barbara wept unrestrainedly for some 
minutes. “Tell me,” she said, at last, 
“how it came about.” 

“ It was in California, at a place called 
Jackson’s Gulch. I was mining there, and 
doing well, for the place was rich. I’d been 
doing well pretty much all along, after I 
married Jess, for when a man loves a gall as 
I loved her, it puts the starch into his back. 
I’d done a lot of things, and tried a lot of 
trades and places, for there might ha’ been 
gipsy blood in her veins, she was that fond 
of change. We had no children, thank God ! 
Though, perhaps,” he added, after a pause. 


92 


THE WEDDING RING. 


“if we had had, it might ha’ kept her 
straight.” 

“ Well, we got to Jackson’s Gulch, and it 
was there we met Mordaunt. That was the 
name he gave himself, though most likely it 
wasn’t his own. He was a gentleman, born 
and bred, and a scholar, and I took it as a 
good deal of honor as he should have took to 
me directly a’ most as he saw me. Jess liked 
him, I could see, and I was glad to see her 
make a friend, for the place was full of rough 
people as she didn’t care to mix with. I 
was away at work all day long, and I thought 
no harm, even when I knew as he was al- 
ways with her. I’d have trusted her across 
the world, after the nine years we’d lived 
together, and him with her, for I believed he 
was my friend, and was proud to be in his 
company. He never did any work, and al- 
ways seemed to have plenty of money, some- 
how. Everybody liked him, and gave way 
to him, as he was a sort of king among them 
rough chaps, and every woman in the camp 
was after him. There was nothing as he 
couldn’t do. He could talk to the French- 
men and the Germans in their own lingo, 
and he could play the fiddle better than any 
other chap in the place, and he could draw 
people’s pictures so as they seemed to speak 


JAKE OWEN. 


93 


to you out of the paper a’ most. He did a 
picture of Jess, as used to hang in the cabin 
at the Gulch. I burned it after — after that 
happened, for I couldn’t stand seeing the 
eyes follow me about. I found out after- 
ward as there’d been a lot of talk in the 
camp about her and Mordaunt being so much 
together, but nobody said anything to me at 
the time. P’raps that was lucky for ’em, 
for I was so mad about the wench, and so 
took up with Mordaunt, that as likely as not 
I should have stuck a knife into ’em for their 
pains. Well, the end came at last. I went 
home one night, and the cabin was empty. 
I waited till one o’clock in the morning, and 
then I went to the bar, beginning to be 
afeared as something might have happened, 
and I thought I might get news of her there. 
Nobody had seen her. Then I asked where 
Mordaunt was, and the man as kept the bar 
said he’d borrowed a horse from him and 
rode out that morning, and hadn’t come back 
yet. I went back to the cabin and waited 
all night. No news came, and no news all 
next day. I was well nigh mad with fright, 
and I went to the chief of the Vigilance 
Committee, and I asked him to give me a 
search party to look for her. ‘ It’s no use, 
my lad,’ he said, ‘ they’ve got six-and-thirty 


94 


THE WEDDING BING, 


hours start of us, and God knows where they 
are by now.’ ‘ They ! ’ I said. ‘ What d’ye 
mean % ’ And he told me, she’ d been seen 
with Mordaunt, thirty miles away, at six 
o’clock the day before. 

He paused in his story, panting a little 
with the exertion of so much speech. Bar- 
bara sat waiting, with clasped hands and 
tear-stained cheeks, for him to continue. 
Outside, the pleasant homely sounds of farm 
life came floating up to the window of the 
room on the still June air, the clamping of 
the horses in the stalls below, the cluck of 
poultry, the rattle of the big mastiff’s chain, 
as he snapped at the flies, the call of a 
wagoner to his horses fifty yards away on 
the high road, the distant clatter of a sheep 
bell, the drowsy music of the trees. Pres- 
ently Jake’s voice rose again, monotonous 
and hollow, like a ghost’s. 

“ I was that mazed I couldn’t think for 
an hour or two. Then I went to the claim 
where my partner was working. I didn’t 
need to tell him what had happened. He 
knew already, and he saw it in my face as I 
knew, too. I asked him to buy my share and 
he took it, and paid for it more than it was 
worth, I remembered afterward, though I 
didn’t notice at the time. He offered to 


JAKE OWEN. 


95 


come along with me, but I said I didn’t want 
him. It was my work, and I meant to go 
through with it alone. I meant to find ’em, 
and to kill ’em both — and what was to hap- 
pen afterward I didn’t know and I didn’t 
care. I hunted ’em for a long time, nearly 
all across America, getting word of ’em here 
and there, but never coming up with them, 
till at last I got to ISTew York. They had 
been there together, and Mordaunt had 
sailed to England a day or two before, alone. 
I went all over the city looking for Jess, and 
at last I found her. She was in the hospital, 
for she’d been fever struck, and he’d took 
advantage of it to run away and leave her to 
die, or to starve, or to go upon the streets. 
I’d meant to kill her, even when I heard she 
was in the hospital ; I went there with mur- 
der in my heart, and my knife was open in 
my pocket when the doctor took me to her 
bed. But, oh ! lass, when I saw her poor 
white face, with the mark of death on it, 
plain for a child to read, my heart broke, 
and I fell crying by the bedside. For I 
loved her in spite of all.” 

Barbara took his hand, and kissed it, and 
wept upon it, in a helpless passion of pity. 

“She died,” Jake continued. “Thank 
God, she died in my arms, and knew as I’d 
forgiven her. I was raving mad for days 


06 


THE WEDHim Rim. 


after, and knew nothing as happened. 
When my brain cleared, I was standing by 
her grave, and there, with the rain beating 
down on me like my own heart’s blood, I 
swore to find the man as had done it all — as 
had killed her and ruined my life.” 

“ And did you find him ? ” asked Barbara, 
involuntarily shrinking from the bed, though 
she still clung to Jake’s hand. 

“No,” said Jake, “or I wouldn’t be rav- 
ing here like an old hen-wife as has lost 
half a dozen chickens. If I’d found him, 
I’d be quiet, lying in the grave with Jess. 
That’s what’s brought me here. That’s 
what’s kept me alive through the fever, and 
the trouble, and the hunger. It’s fed my 
mouth like bread, the thought of meeting 
Mm face to face. It’s all I asked of God 
Almighty, just to let me stand before that 
man for one minute.” 

The simple peasant woman had never seen 
passion like to this. It frightened her to 
silence. Then she began to stammer religi- 
ous commonplaces about the wickedness of 
revenge. Jake lay staring at the ceiling, 
and made no answer ; it was doubtful if he 
heard her. 

“I’m tired, lass,” he said, quietly, a 
minute after her voice had ceased; “leave 
me to myself — I’ll sleep awhile.” 


CHAPTEE IX. 


MR. EZRA STOKES 


R. EZRA STOKES, the landlord of 



-T-VJL the Pig and Whistle, one of the two 
houses of public entertainment in the vil- 
lage of Crouchford, was a newcomer in these 
parts. Crouchford was slow to accept new 
people, and Stokes had been a member of 
its community onlj^ for the last two years. 

He was a dry and withered man of late 
middle age, whose skin had been burned to 
an equal blackish brown by stronger suns 
than that which shone on Essex. He was 
gnarled and warped and knotted all over 
like a wind-blown tree — with a halting leg, 
a wry neck, a humped shoulder, a peculiarly 
ghastly squint, a crooked mouth, furnished 
with huge discolored teeth, no two of which 
stood at the same angle, and a twisted nose 
with three distinct bridges. 

His antecedents were dark ; except that 
he had been a traveler, and had as, despite 
the time-honored proverb to the contrary, 


97 


98 


THE WEDDING BING. 


rolling stones sometimes do, gathered some 
financial moss in his wanderings, nothing 
was known of him by his neighbors. He 
had dropped down into the little place 
from — Heaven knows where, and had taken 
the lease of the Pig and Whistle, paying 
solid cash for the privilege, and lived repu- 
tably in the village, owing no man any- 
thing. 

There was a certain likeness between his 
home and himself : both had been newer and 
smarter once upon a time, but the battering 
which makes a man ugly makes a house 
picturesque, and such stray connoisseurs of 
the beautiful as came to Crou^chford found 
the Pig and Whistle a x^i^ettier sjjectacle 
than its landlord. It Avas a tumble-down, 
weather-stained roadside house of two sto- 
ries, with bulging walls shored up by heavy 
baulks of timber. Its low browed door 
was covered with a heavy lintel of oak 
beams, and furnished with two settles, 
where, on fine nights, Mr. Stokes might be 
seen reading the neAvspaper or drinking 
affably with his rustic customers. The lat- 
ter voted him ’mazin’ good comx)any, for he 
could, when he chose, talk of moving adven- 
tures by fiood and field, in places whose 
names sounded strange and barbaric in 


MR. EZRA STOKES. 


99 


rustic ears, and had besides a sly, hard 
humor, which sometimes took a practical 
form. 

Mr. Bream, rapidly covering all the ground 
— social and geographical — of Crouchford 
with his usual energy, knew every soul in 
the parish in a week, and among them the 
landlord of the Pig and Whistle. Their 
acquaintance made quick progress. There 
were not many people of sufficient native 
shrewdness or acquired experience in Crouch- 
ford greatly to interest a man of culture, ex- 
cept with the interest, grown commonplace 
to Mr. Bream, of individual traits of charac- 
ter, or of such special Avorries and troubles, 
bodily and spiritual, as it was his duty to 
attend to. 

A man who had traveled, and would talk 
more or less intelligently of what he had 
seen, was an acquaintance to be cultivated 
in a village of whose inhabitants not one 
per cent, had ever wandered twenty miles 
from the church spire. Then, the Pig and 
Whistle was the sitting place of the local 
parliament, where the ancients and young 
men of the place came together to unbend 
in social dissipation after the labors of the 
day, and he who would know men should 
meet them at such moments. 


100 


THE WEDHING RING. 


Crouchford came to think well of its new 
curate. 

In the first week of his sojourn among 
them, the annual cricket match with the 
neighboring village of Hilton had been 
played, and for the first time in five years 
had resulted in a victory for Couchford, 
mainly through his batting and bowling. 
That alone would have conquered the affec- 
tions of the villagers, but when, after the 
match, Mr. Bream stood the two elevens a 
supper at the Pig and Whistle, and after 
due justice had been done to beef and ale, 
sang “Tom Bowling” from his place at 
the head of the table, Crouchford old and 
young, male and female, swore by him. 

This access of popularity rather disturbed 
the mind of Mr. Herbert, who belonged to 
an altogether different type of clergymen, 
and whose aristocratic instincts were not so 
tempered by his Christianity as to permit 
him so large a familiarity with the humbler 
members of his fiock. 

A week or two after Bream's arrival his 
vicar was shocked to see his curate at the 
door of Stoke’ s hostelry, holding forth to 
the assembled yokels, with a glass of beer in 
his hand, and obviously, to judge by the 
broad grins of his audience, not on a doc- 


MR. EZRA STOKES. 


101 


trinal subject. When the two clerics next 
came together, the senior took the curate to 
task about this undue familiarity. 

‘‘Understand me, Bream,’’ he said, “I 
would not willingly be taken for one of 
those — ah — false shepherds, who think that 
the delivery of a weekly sermon and the 
discharge of bare parochial work, com- 
pletes a pastor’s work. By no means. I 
have endeavored during my whole time here, 
to — ah — to institute a friendly feeling be- 
tween myself and every member of the 
church congregation. But there are — ah — 
limits. Bream.” 

“So you think I have overstepped the 
limits, sir?” 

“Distinctly!” said Mr. Herbert, with 
emphasis. “To preserve authority among 
the — ah — vulgar, a gentleman, and above all, 
a priest, should keep a certain aloofness — a 
certain dignity.- How can that dignity be 
preserved by a clergyman who drinks— ah — 
beer?” Mr. Herbert got out the vulgar 
monosyllable with something of an effort — 
“ with a crowd of rustics before a com- 
mon ale-house?” 

“Stokes’s beer is really very good, sir,” 
said Bream, gravely. 

^ It never entered into Mr, Herbert’s head 


102 


THE WEDDING BING. 


that anybody, especially his curate, could 
dare to chaff him, and he put aside the 
irrelevant remark with a wave of his hand. 

“Let me ask you, Mr. Herbert,” said 
Bream, “if you ever happened to overhear 
those fellows talking when they were un- 
aware of your presence ! ” 

“Yery possibly. I — ah — don’t exactly 
remember any particular occasion, but it 
has probably occurred.” 

“It has occurred once or twice to me 
since I have been here,” said Bream, “and 
I have noticed that on such occasions their 
whole conversation is one tissue of dirt and 
Xirofanity. Well, sir, when I am with them, 
I have seldom heard a word which might 
not be used from the pul^ut. Last night, 
just after you had passed, one man, Ned 
Roberts, from the Pear Tree Farm, began to 
swear. I told him he had no right to use 
that language in my jiresence, but— he was 
drunk— he went on swearing, and Stokes 
turned him out and sent him home. Now 
surely, sir, if my presence among them 
obliges them to talk and think decently for 
an hour or so a day, that is so much gained, 
and the fact that it does so is surely proof 
enough that my familiarity with them has not 
bred contempt either of me or of my office.” 


MR. EZRA STOKES. 


103 


“ There is something in what you say, 
Bream,’’ said Mr. Herbert. “Still,” he con- 
tinued, returning to his original position, 
“there are limits. Don’t overstep them. 
As for that fellow Stokes, I don’t like him. 
During the four years he has lived here he 
has not once entered the church door. He 
has given me more trouble about — ah — tithes 
than any three people in the place. I don’ t 
think he led a reputable life before he came 
here.” 

“He is a fairly intelligent man, sir, and 
he has a good deal of influence among the 
laborers. As to what his life has been it is 
hard to say. He has traveled a good deal, 
though in what capacity I don’ t know. He 
is willing enough to talk of what he has 
seen, but he never talks about himself.” 

“I should say,” said Mr. Herbert, “that 
he probably has good reason for his reti- 
cence,” an uncharitable remark, which 
Bream attributed to the tithes dispute. 

It fell out, however, that this same Stokes 
was to be intimately associated with the de- 
velopment of the one romance whicli was 
going forward in that sleepy and world- 
forgotten village, and it so fell out in this 
wise. Mr. Bream, calling at the Pig and 
Whistle one evening, found Stokes holding 


104 


THE WEDDING BING. 


forth to his ring of customers regarding a 
tremendous landslip in the State of Arizona, 
which had happened a few years back, in a 
district with which he had been familiar 
both before and after the catastrophe. His 
hearers listened open-mouthed, save one 
sour-faced veteran, who, at the conclusion of 
the tale, snorted with disdainful laughter, 
before burying his visage in a wide-mouthed 
earthen mug. 

“ What be laughin’ at, George ? ” asked a 
crony. 

“ Why at all you fools swallerin’ the like 
of that,” said the ancient. 

‘‘ Don’t you believe it? ” asked Stokes. 

“ Do you believe it, as has been a telling 
of it?” asked the ancient, sourly. ‘‘You 
comes here, and asks Chris’ en men i’ their 
sense to b’lieve a rigmarole like that.” 

“Well, but George, what is it as ee don’t 
b’lieve,?” asked the crony. 

“I don’t believe one word of it,” said 
George, sturdily. 

“You’re wrong there, then,” said Mr. 
Bream. “Things of that sort do occur, and 
as for the details of this story, I remember 
reading some of them in the English papers 
at the time.” 

“ There, said Stokes, triumphantly. 


MR. EZRA STOKES. 


105 


“That’s what comes o’ telling a story to a 
gentleman as knows something. And if ye 
want any more proof than Mr. Bream’s word, 
why ye shall have it.” 

So saying, he left the meeting for a mo- 
ment, and presently returned with a big 
volume in his arms, which turned out to be 
a collection of literary and pictorial scraps 
from English, Colonial, and American news- 
papers. 

“There,” he said, bumping the volume 
down before the dissenting George, open at 
a large picture — “ that’s the place as it was 
after the landslip — as it is now for all I 
know. I’ve eat my meals and slep’ in that 
hut in the corner scores o’ times, when it was 
a quarter-of-a-mile higher up the mountain. 

“Well,” said the combative George, unable 
to stand against the phalanx of testimony, 
but retreating like a valiant general, with his 
face to the foe, “ I don’t know as it’s much 
use to talk o’ places when that kind o’ thing’s 
like to happen. I’m glad as I can go to my 
bed i’ Crouchford without bein’ afraid of 
finding Hilton atop o’ me when I wakes i’ 
the mornin’. /should look on a visitation 
o’ that sort i’ th’ light of a judgment.” 

“ Ah, surely ! ” chorused the others, with 
the exception of Stokes, who was surveying 


106 


THE WEDDING RING. 


the ancient with a visage of humorous dis- 
dain, and Mr. Bream, who was turning the 
leaves of the book. 

“Have you been in all these places, 
Stokes?’’ asked Mr. Bream, glancing from 
page to page, tilled with scraps of journalism 
from most of the English-speaking countries 
and settlements on the face of the globe. 

“Why, no sir!” said Stokes, “not all, 
but I’ve been in a good many of ’em. I was 
always fond of reading, and I cut them 
things out, here and there, and kept ’em, 
and when I came here I pasted ’em into 
that book. They comes in useful, some- 
times, when a set o’ moldy old yokels, as 
has never been a mile from the town pump, 
calls me a liar.” 

George wisely declined to accept this chal- 
lenge to a renewal of hostilities. Suddenly 
the assembly was startled by a stilled excla- 
mation from Mr. Bream, and saw him star- 
ing like one amazed at a page of the book. 

“ Stokes ! ” he said, rising with the volume 
in his hand, and speaking in a quick, uneven 
voice, “ give me a word in private, will you ? 
There is something here which interests 
me.” 

Stokes limped his way into the deserted 
parlor, and Mr. Bream followed, bearing the 


MR. EZRA STOKES. 


107 


book, which he laid open on the table. The 
inn-keeper offered him a chair ; he took no 
notice of the act, but after looking round 
to see that they were really alone and the 
door closed, laid his finger on a cutting. 

“Eead that,” he said, ‘‘and tell me if 
it’s true.” 

Stokes, after staring at him, read the 
paragraph. It was to this effect : 

“News comes from Yuam, New Mexico, 
that Bluffer Hawkins, the well-known des- 
perado of that district, has at last handed in 
his checks. Our readers will remember that 
it is little over a month since Hawkins, ac- 
companied by a solitary confederate, stopped 
the mail-coach just outside Yuam, and exe- 
cuted a daring and successful robbery on the 
passengers. On Tuesday night, one of the 
victims of the raid gave information to 
Police Lieutenant McCormick that Hawkins 
and his companion had entered the town, 
and were drinking in the Magnolia Saloon. 
That officer, with liis usual energetic prompt- 
ness, betook himself to the place, accom- 
panied by three of his subordinates. Imme- 
diately on his entrance, Hawkins and his 
companion drew their revolvers. In the first 
exchange of shots McCormick and one of his 
followers fell, fatally wounded, and there is 


108 


THE WEDDING DING. 


little doubt but that Hawkins and liis com- 
panion would have escaped but for the 
public-spirited conduct of Mr. Uriah Cleary, 
the proprietor of the saloon, who materially 
aided the officers of law by firing at Haw- 
kins from behind. His bullet passed through 
the desperado’s neck, and a lucky shot from 
one of McCormick’s party settled his com- 
panion. The identity of the latter was 
established at the police-station, where, life 
being discovered to be extinct, an examina- 
tion of his body resulted in the discovery 
of several old letters, addressed to Philip 
O’ Mara, at an address in London. McCor- 
mick’s gallant conduct has excited universal 
admiration, and a subscription has been 
liberally started on behalf of his widow and 
children.” 

It seemed to Mr. Bream’s excited fancy 
that Stokes took an unconscionably long 
time to read this short paragraph. When 
at last he raised his head, his twisted face 
was as impassive as a stone wall. As for 
his eyes, there was never anything to be 
learned from them, not even the direction in 
which they were looking. He said nothing, 
but waited for the clergyman to speak 
again. 

“ Is that true ? ” asked Mr. Bream again. 


MR. EZRA STOKES. 


109 


“It’s given here as a piece of news,” 
Stokes answered. “I don’t see why it 
shouldn’t be.” 

“ Were yon ever in that place ? Did yon 
know either of those men ? ’ ’ 

Stokes’s crooked eyes came together, as if 
taking council of each other. 

“I knew them both,” he answered, after 
a moment’s pause. 

“ Were you at this place, Yuam, when the 
affray happened ? ’ ’ 

“No, I was in New York ; that’s where I 
saw the report. It’s cut out of the New 
York Sentinel^ June 5, 18 — .” He pointed 
to the date, written in his own rude charac- 
ters, below the paragraph. 

“ You knew O’ Mara?” 

“Not by that name ; Mordaunt was what 
he called himself 1 ” 

“How do you know then that this was the 
man ? ’ ’ 

“Because I was with him in a bar in St. 
Louis ; a man came up to him and called him 
O’ Mara. Mordaunt stuck the man out as 
he’d made a mistake. He was an English- 
man, so was Mordaunt.” 

“ Could you describe him ? ” 

“ Tallish chap ; good-looking ; very swell 
way of speaking. Used a lot of crack jaw 


110 


TEE WEDDING RING. 


words. Played the fiddle and the planner 
beautiful.” 

“Will you lend me this book for an hour 
or two, Stokes ? Say till to-morrow morn- 
ing? ” 

“Certainly, sir,” said Stokes, closing the 
volume and handing it to him, ‘ ‘ keep it as 
long as you like, sir.” 

“ I knew the unfortunate man,” said Mr. 
Bream, “he has relatives in England who 
know nothing of his death. I will ask you, 
Stokes, to be so good as to say nothing of 
our conversation. It is a painful story and 
I don’t want it talked about.” 

“I’m mum, sir,” said Stokes, “there’s 
nobody here, at all events, as I’m likely to 
talk to about it.” 

“True,” said Mr. Bream. 

He left the house with the book under his 
arm. 

“ He said he was going home when he 
came in,” said Stokes to himself, as he 
watched the curate’s rapidly lessening figure 
along the village street. “ That ain’t his 
way home. He seemed knocked all acock 
by it. He asks me not to talk about it. 
What’s in the wind now, I wonder?” 


CHAPTER X. 


AFTER SEVEIf YEARS. 

REAM, with Stokes’s book of scraps 



-L) hugged under his arm and seeming to 
communicate an electric tingle under his 
whole frame, strode along the village street 
into the lane beyond, walking at his rapidest 
rate, until he came in sight of the red brick 
chimneys of Crouchford Court. He slack- 
ened his pace there to recover his breath and 
wipe away the thick perspiration which his 
rapid walking had brought to his face. He 
was in such a condition of nervous tremor 
as few men of his splendid physical condition 
seldom, know, and it required a strong 
effort to quiet the trembling of his hands, 
and to compose his features to their usual 


calm. 


Barbara answered his ring, and replied to 
his inquiry that Mrs. Dartmouth was at 
home. She led him to the breakfast-room, 
and left him to announce his arrival, return- 
ing with the message that her mistress would 
see him directly. 


Ill 


112 


THE WEDDING RING. 


‘‘How is your brotlier-in-law progress- 
ing ? ” he asked her. 

“ He's mending, sir, slowly. Doctor says 
as he ought to be all right again in a week or 
two. My lady is going to find him work on 
the farm when he is well enough to take it.” 

“He seems to have something on his 
mind,” said Bream. “His illness is much 
more mental than physical. Whatever it is, 
he refuses to talk of it.” 

“ He’s told me, sir,” said Barbara. With 
a reticence natural under the circumstances, 
she said no more than that he was grieving 
for her sister — his wife — who had died a year 
ago. Mrs. Dartmouth entering at that mo- 
ment released her from further question, 
and she left the room. 

Bream found himself in a situation which 
most of us have known at some time or 
other ; the possessor of a piece of news he 
knew must be welcome, yet requiring con- 
siderable delicacy in the fashion of its con- 
veyance. To gain time, he opened with 
some stereotyped commonplace, and Mrs. 
Dartmouth answering on the same lines, 
found himself fioundering dismally, and 
feeling it more and more difficult with every 
passing moment to disclose the real object 
of his visit. His uneasiness was too pro- 


AFTER SEVEN YEARS, 


113 


noiinced to miss Mrs. Dartmouth’s observa- 
tion. 

“You seem agitated, Mr. Bream. No bad 
news, I hope, of your parishioners V’ 

“ Oh, none ! Things are going splen- 
didly.” He stopped short, and then, taking 
his courage d deux mains ^ plunged at the 
communication he had to make. 

“I have learned a thing this afternoon, 
which closely concerns you,” he said. “ It 
concerns you so closely, it is of such vital 
importance, that I scarcely know how to 
approach it. I am afraid that it will be 
something of a shock to you.” 

She went a shade paler than usual, but it 
was with perfect quiet that she bade him 
proceed. 

“ You will remember that on my first 
meeting with you how we spoke of — of your 
husband.” She went paler still, and her 
breathing quickened. “I have news of 
him.” There was so unmistakable a look 
of fear and horror in her face that he hurried 
on, blurting out his communication crudely, 
almost brutally. “You are free. He will 
never trouble you again.” 

Mrs. Dartmouth gave a gasp, and her 
bosom labored under the hand with which 
she tried to still it. 


114 


THE WEDDING RING. 


He laid the book open at the paragraph 
he had read half an hour before. 

Read for yourself/’ he said. 

She took the book, and remained staring 
at it blankly for a minute or two. When at 
last she bent her eyes upon the lines, they so 
danced and gyrated before them that she 
could not read. Even when she had found 
the passage, she sat staring at the page as if 
the words meant nothing to her. Presently 
the tears began to run down her blanched 
cheeks, and she gave a gasping sob or two. 
Bream feared an attack of hysterics. 

“I will leave you,” he said, “and send 
Barbara.” 

“Ho, no ! ” she said. “ Stay ! ” 

She tried hard to fight down the attack, 
and succeeded, but the tears were still run- 
ning when the door opened, and a head of 
golden curls peeped round it. Dora sped to 
her mother, and climbing upon her knee, 
began to cry in affectionate and ignorant 
sympathy. Mrs. Dartmouth strained her 
in her arms, hushing and soothing her with 
broken ejaculations of comfort. The tears 
still ran, but the emotion which called them 
forth was changed.- She kissed and caressed 
the child with a passionate affection, which 
frightened her almost as much as her 


AFTER SEVEN YEARS. 


115 


mother’s white face and choking sobs had 
done before. 

“Oh, mamma, what is it?” cried Dora, 
bewildered and frightened by the rapid 
changes of emotion readable in her mother’s 
face and manner. “ What is the matter ? ” 

“I will tell yon darling, some day, per- 
haps ; not now — yon wonld not nnderstand. 
See, I am qnite happy now ; I am not going 
to cry any more.” She wiped the tears from 
her own face and from that of the child. 
“Rnn away, dear; Mr. Bream and I have 
things to talk of.” 

“And yon are snre — sure — that yon won’t 
cry any more ? ” asked Dora. 

“No, darling, my crying is over now,” 
answered Gillian. She kissed the child 
again, whispering, “Go!” in her ear, and 
Dora went obediently, with a lingering back- 
ward glance. Bream had retired to a win- 
dow looking on the garden, and had left 
child and mother together. He remained 
there, giving Gillian the time to conquer 
herself before resuming her talk with him. 

“Let us get into the open air,” she said, 
“ I am stifling here.” 

They passed into the garden together, and 
for a space there was silence between them. 
They crossed the lawn, and a hay field where 


116 THE WEDDING RING. 

tlie grass was almost ready for the scythe, 
and entered a long stretch of spinney, 
bounded by the public road. Still no word 
was spoken, as they walked slowly through 
alternate spaces of green gloom and golden 
sunlight. 

‘‘Mr. Bream,” said Gillian at last, “ I feel 
like a criminal. The man was my husband, 
I almost loved him once, when our married 
life was new. He was the father of my 
child, I swore before the altar to love and 
honor him, swore as a Christian woman, 
knowing the meaning of that solemn vow. 
And now that I know that he is dead — I 
cannot help it — my only feeling is joy.” 

“ Very naturally,” said Bream. 'He made 
his tone purposely dry, almost careless, for 
there was such a deep emotion in her voice 
that he dreaded to increase it. “ There is a 
point at which nature must assert itself, at 
which no vow, however sacred, no duty, 
however great, can beat it down.” 

“ I was his wife,” she said. 

“ A true one, I know,” he answered, “and 
a loving one, had he ever cared to have your 
love. Am I right ? ” 

“ God knows you are,” she said. 

“I am a clergyman,” he said, “an un- 
worthy one, I know, but one who at least 


AFTER SEVEN YEARS. 


117 


tries to do his duty. I arn sj^aking now 
guardedly and with a full sense of the 
spiritual import of what I say. Justice and 
common sense absolve you. You gave this 
man duty and obedience. He trampled them 
underfoot. You offered him affection and 
respect. He flung them aside. You owe to 
his memory no more than the sorrow every 
Christian should feel for a wasted life, and 
hope that God may have pardoned his 
cruelty.” 

The steady beat of a horse’s hoofs, which 
had been clearly audible since they entered 
the strip of woodland, had come nearer and 
nearer unmarked, and now in the sudden 
dead stillness, which had followed Bream’s 
solemn words, rang on their ears with a 
startling suddenness. They reached the 
further outskirts of the spinney, and saw 
Sir George Yenebles riding by. He was 
looking in their direction, but passed with- 
out seeing them. Bream stole a look at his 
companion, and saw the pallor of her face 
drowned in a sudden wave of crimson. She 
turned, and struck into a narrow path 
through the undergrowth, so narrow that he 
could no longer walk abreast with her. To 
his mind, the blush and succeeding action 
were a confession. When a widening of the 


118 


THE WEDDING RING. 


path permrtted him to regain her side, he 
saw that though the first brilliancy of the 
blush had faded, her face was aflame with 
healthy color, and there was a soft, dreamy 
look in her eyes. Becoming aware of his 
scrutiny, she blushed anew, and covered her 
confusion by holding out to him her hand 
with a bright, grateful smile. 

“ You seem to have been appointed by 
Providence as my special guardian angel,” 
she said. ‘ ‘ N o w, how can I ever thank you V ’ 

“Thank me? Why, what have you to 
thank me for ? ” 

“For everything that makes life worth 
living,” she answered. “For new hope, 
for countless kindnesses.” 

“You owe me literally nothing,” said 
Bream. “It is I who should thank Provi- 
dence for putting into my hands the oppor- 
tunity of serving you. I did not make the 
opportunity. It came to me. I used it, 
that is all.” 

“You were always generous,” she said, 
“but that only adds to the burden of my 
obligation.” 

Yenebles was in his mind, and as they 
walked side by side to the house, he strove 
to find some form of words in which he 
might hint, not too broadly, of his friend’s 


AFTER SEVEN TEARS. 


119 


hopes. The flush in her face, the tender 
dewiness of her eyes as the baronet had 
ridden by, at once opened his desire to 
speak, and seemed to intimate how little 
need of speech there was. He had parted 
with her before he found his opening. 

‘‘ That will be arranged without any inter- 
ference of mine,” he said to himself, as he 
swung gaily back to the village. ‘‘She 
loves him, that is evident enough. I sup- 
pose Herbert will want to marry them. I 
should have liked to do that, but I suppose 
I must be content with the position of best 
man. Poor old Yenebles, he has waited a 
long time. How sad he looked as he passed. 
Well, his troubles, are over now, and hers 
too, thank God ! They ought to be happy 
together. He’s a splendid fellow, and she — 
she’s an angel. They are worthy of each 
other, and the whole world doesn’t hold a 
finer couple. By Jove ! there he is. Hi ! 
Sir George ! I want to speak to you.” 

The baronet, who had suddenly hove into 
sight, cantering down a cross-road, pulled 
up at the summons, and waited until his 
friend came panting up to him. At his re- 
quest he dismounted, and they walked side 
by side together down a deserted lane as 
Bream told his story. Yenebles went red 


120 


THE WEDDING RING. 


and pale by turns, but his broad, handsome 
face glowed like a sun with sudden joy as 
he turned it on his friend. He wrung his 
hand hard, pouring out incoherent words of 
thanks. 

‘‘ I was right, then ; I knew she cared for 
me.” 

‘‘ Her face showed that as you rode by,” 
said Bream. “You never made a ’more op- 
portune appearance. Where are you going ? ’ ’ 
he asked, as the baronet swung himself into 
the saddle. 

“I’m going to make another,” he an- 
swered ; “ to strike while the iron is hot.” 

“You’re a brisk lover,” said the curate, 
with a laugh. ‘ ‘ Had you not better give her 
a bit of time, and wait a little 

“ Wait ? ” said Y enebles, fiercel y . “ Y ou 

talk easily of waiting. I’ve waited six years 
already.” He leaned over and pressed his 
friend’s hand again. “God bless you, old 
fellow ! I shall have news for you to- 
morrow.” 

He struck his spurs in his great roadster, 
and was gone like a flash. Bream looking 
after him till he had disappeared from sight. 
Five minutes at that pace carried him to 
Crouchford Court. He tied his foaming 
horse to the gate, and entered the garden. 


AFTER SEVEN YEARS. 


121 


Gillian was there among her flowers. He 
strode toward her. She tried to keep back 
the great wave of crimson, which flooded her 
from brow to throat, and to repress the 
trembling of her limbs, but he gave her no 
time to play the tricks of her sex. He had 
hold of both her hands in his strong grasp 
before she knew, and bent above her ra- 
diantly. 

‘‘Gillian,” he said, “I know your secret 
now. I know the barrier that parted us is 
down. Bream has told me. all.” 

“Mr. Bream tells other people’s secrets 
very easily,” she said, with an attempt at 
frigid dignity, made quite abortive by her 
beaming face and humid eyes, and by the 
electric tremor of her fingers. 

“ I have waited for my happiness a long 
time, Gillian,” he said, with a sudden tremor 
in his voice. ‘ ‘ Have I not found it at last ? ’ ’ 

“If I can make you happy, yes,” she 
answered, with a sweet gravity, and yielded 
to the strong and steady persuasion of the 
hands which drew her to his breast. 


CHAPTER XL 


ONE WAY OF LOOKING AT IT. 

T he evening after the blissful interview 
which had ended six years of fear and 
doubt, Sir George Yenebles, mounted on 
his big roadster, was journeying through 
the pleasant green lanes which lay between 
the Lodge and Crouchford Court. 

It was still early in the morning, and the 
heat of the young sun was tempered by a 
cool breeze and an occasional tleecy cloud. 
The whole earth seemed, in the happy 
lover’s imagination, to rejoice with his re- 
joicing ; and the tranquil, friendly prospect 
of the meadows, among which his whole life 
had been passed, had never touched him 
with a charm of such serene happiness. 

The long ribbon of road, inch deep in 
white dust between the flowering hedges, 
was empty of passengers, and in the pleas- 
ant solitude he gave vent to the gladness of 
his heart with an almost boyish simplicity, 
answering the incessant chatter of the birds 
with a fluent whistle, as jolly as the jolliest 
122 


ONE WAT OF LOOKING AT IT. 


123 


note of thrush or blackbird. His handsome 
face, ruddy with free exercise in sun and 
air, beamed with satisfaction. He was 
dressed with unusual care, and from the 
corner of his hat to the tips of his polished 
boots looked the very model of an English 
squire. 

As he approached within sight of the 
chimney cowls of Crouchford Court visible 
above the winding hedges, he became aware 
of a figure approaching him on foot, and on 
a second glance recognized the pedestrian 
as Mr. Herbert. He waved his riding wliij) 
in salutation and quickened his horse’s leis- 
urely pace. 

The reverend gentleman was strolling along 
with a serenity of visage begotten of a good 
breakfast, a conscience at rest, a mind at 
peace with all the world, and the softening 
influence of the odorous morning air. 

“Good- morning. Sir George,” he said, as 
the baronet reined in his horse. “ Magnifi- 
cent weather.” 

“Yes,” said Venebles. “It’s the finest 
day I ever saw, I think.” 

There was an unconstrained ring of jollity 
in his voice, he spoke the words upon a 
laugh, as though they had been some master- 
piece of merry humor. The clergyman 


124 TEE WEDDING RING. 

looked at Mm, with knitted brows of good 
humored inquiry drawn over his mild, short- 
sighted eyes. 

‘‘You look particularly happy this morn- 
ing,” he exclaimed. 

“I am particularly happy,” Yenebles 
answered. 

“ I rejoice to — ah — hear it,” said Mr. Her- 
bert. “May I ask the cause % ” 

“Well,” said Yenebles, ‘'you would cer- 
tainly soon hear it from some other source, 
so I will tell you the more willingly since, 
to some extent, it concerns you.” 

“ Concerns me ?” repeated Herbert. 

Yenebles descended from his horse, and 
taking the clergyman’s arm, led on his horse 
by the bridle. 

“Yes, I hope in a week or two to ask for 
a cast of your office.” 

“ Indeed ?” 

Mr. Herbert spoke the word with a sudden 
gravity, and shot a side-long glance at the 
radiant face of his companion. 

“Yes,” said Yenebles. “I’m going to 
say good-by to bachelorhood, and settle 
down as a married man.” 

“Ye-es,” said Mr. Herbert. 

“Is that all you have to say?” asked 
Yenebles. 


ONE WAT OF LOOKING AT IT. 125 

“ By no means. I may have much to say, 
my dear Sir George ; but tell me, first, who 
is the lady ? ” 

“I should have thought you would have 
guessed that,’’ said the baronet. His tone 
was a little- discomfited and brusque, as 
though his old friend’s lack of warmth hurt 
him. 

‘‘Perhaps I do,” said the clergyman. 
“Mrs. Dartmouth?” 

“Yes, I proposed to her last. night, and 
she accepted me. By Jove ! I believe I’m 
the happiest man in England at this moment. 
You know, sir, what a woman she is, how 
good, how ” 

He checked himself. To his devoted ten- 
derness his very praise seemed almost a 
profanation of the priceless woman he loved, 
so little could he express of the devotion 
with which she filled his heart. 

“A most admirable lady,” said Mr. Her- 
bert. “A lady for whom I have the most 
profound respect — I had almost said— ah — 
affection. Beautiful both in person and 
character.” 

“Isn’t she?” cried Yenebles, turning a 
happy face on him. Thank you, sir, for 
saying that. Though who could think other- 
wise who’d ever seen her for five minutes. I 


126 


THE WEDDING BING. 


knew you would congratulate me when you 
knew/’ 

“ Ahem ! ” went Mr. Herbert. 

‘‘ What do you mean, sir ? ” asked Yen- 
ebles, releasing his arm. His face, which 
was simply wondering, would have expressed 
indignation had his companion been other 
than he was. 

“ My dear Sir Greorge,” said Mr. Herbert, 

be calm. I respect and admire the lady as 
much, I think, as you can do. I admit that 
as far as the graces of her mind and person, 
the excellence of her character and prin- 
ciples are concerned, it would be difficult to 
discover a lady more admirably suited to do 
credit to the station you will raise her to. 
But there are other considerations.” 

“Other considerations?” echoed Yen- 
ebles. “ What other considerations, in 
Heaven’s name ? ” 

“ Let us approach them — ah — seriatum ! ” 
said Mr. Herbert. “You must know, my 
dear sir, that a friend so intimate, not 
merely with yourself but with your dear 
father, must have been aware of the condi- 
tions of your feelings with respect to Mrs. 
Dartmouth for some time past. I know, for 
instance, that some five or six years ago 
you asked her to become your wife.” 


ONE WAY OF LOOKING AT IT. 127 
‘‘I did.” 

‘‘ Did she — ah — confide to you any reason 
for her refusal at that date ? ” 

‘‘No, I guessed it, and have since learned 
that my guess was correct. Her husband 
was still alive.” 

‘^I gather, from her acceptance of you, 
that he is since dead.” 

Precisely,” said Yenebles, dryly. 

“Precisely,” echoed Mr. Herbert. “Has 
she confided in you the reasons for her 
separation from her husband for so long a 
period ? ” 

“ I never asked her,” answered Venebles ; 
“ I did not want to know them. The matter 
has not been mentioned between us.” 

“Don’t you think,” pursued the clergy- 
man, “ don’t you think, my dear Sir George, 
putting aside for the moment other consid- 
erations to which we will — ah — presently 
return — that it would be well to invite such 
a confidence.” 

“I am so perfectly certain,” said Sir 
George, “that Gill— that Mrs. Dartmouth — 
can have nothing to blame herself for, so 
sure that, whatever the reason for her separa- 
tion may have been, she was blameless in 
the matter, that I have never thought it 
necessary to approach the subject. Let me 


128 


THE WEDDING RING. 


ask you, sir, if ever, in all your knowledge 
of women — and in your clerical capacity you 
must have known many very intimately — 
have you ever known one her superior ? I 
have heard you speak of her goodness a 
hundred times. She is your favorite parish- 
woman. It was by your countenance and 
friendship that she conquered the prejudice 
with wdiich, as a stranger, she found herself 
surrounded when first she came to live 
here.” 

“True,” said Mr. Herbert. “I believe 
her to be an excellent woman. But, mark 
me, I can only 'beliem it. I do not Tcnow it. 
I know nothing but her career among us in 
Crouchford.” 

“ Is not that enough % ” 

“ To extend to her my personal considera- 
tion as a gentleman, my office as a spiritual 
guide — yes. To receive her as a fit wife for 
you, the son of my oldest friend, the repre- 
sentative of the best family in this county, 
as the future mother of your children — no. 
Ho, my dear George. You have a right to 
know more, to know — ah — all. I pay the 
lady a sincere compliment when I express 
my belief that she w^ould welcome your in- 
vitation to such a confidence.” 

“/have no fear of it,” said Venebles, 


ONE WAT OF LOOKING AT IT. 129 

with a laugh. “ If she likes to tell me — I’ll 
listen. But I won’t hint a doubt of her by- 
asking it.” 

‘‘Then,” said Mr. Herbert, “let us waive 
that point for a little time, and come to 
the other consideration at which I hinted a 
minute ago. Mrs. Dartmouth is — ah — a 
widow.” 

“Well!” said Yenebles. He spoke the 
word dryly, with a twinkle in his eyes which 
his companion did not see. 

“ My views upon certain topics,” said 
Mr. Herbert, “are, I know, what the present 
generation, even the present generation of 
clergymen, are in the habit of calling — ah — 
old-fashioned. That judgment has, how- 
ever, never frightened me into holding back 
when I deemed it necessary to express them. 
Some old fashions are worth preserving. 
Your ‘ well,’ my dear Sir George, is a little 
disingenuous, for I think you are aware of 
my views upon the re-marriage of widows.” 

“ I know that you disapprove of it,” said 
Yenebles. “Mrs. Dartmouth knows it, too, 
for you have expressed it, she tells me, in 
her presence. She told me so last night, 
when I said that I hoped that you would 
marry us.” 

“ Understand me,” said Mr. Herbert, 


130 


THE WEDDING BING. 


“ that I have never taken the ground that 
no widow should marry. There may be — 
ah— dispensations. There are many rules of 
conduct which admit of no exception what- 
ever. There are others in which — ah — dis- 
tinction may fittingly be made. I trust 
that this may be such a case, admitting, 
of course, that, as I am strongly inclined to 
believe, your blind belief in Mrs. Dart- 
mouth’s purity of character is justified. 
Come ! ” he said, pressing the young man’s 
arm, and speaking with a winning friendli- 
ness of manner made additionally pleasant 
by his general stiffness and preciseness, 
“come, my dear sir, let us see if there is 
no way of reconciling our views upon this 
matter.” 

“Willingly,” said Yenebles. “I know, 
sir, that I have no more sincere well-wisher 
than yourself.” 

“ Good ! ” said Mr. Herbert. “ Then, will 
you let me approach Mrs. Dartmouth on the 
two tliemes of which we have spoken ? Let 
me in my double character of your friend 
and well-wisher — representing in that capac- 
ity, the world and — ah — the general feeling 
of society — and as a clergyman, represent- 
ing the views of the true church, let me ask 
Mrs. Dartmouth for some particulars of her 


ONE WAT OF LOOKING AT IT. 131 

first marriage and the reason of her — ah — 
unfortunate separation from her husband.” 

Yenebles paced on slowly for a moment. 

I tell you candidly,” said the old cleric, 
with an obvious affection, which gave a cer- 
tain dignity to his speech and preserved the 
young man from taking any offense at his 
rather fussy officio usness, “ that I feel to- 
ward you — ah — in loco •parentis — Ah ! you 
laugh. You think you are old enough to be 
out of leading strings, old enough to do 
without anybody’s advice.” 

“Advice!” repeated Yenebles. “Pray, 
understand me, Mr. Herbert.” He checked 
his horse, and stood still to make the dec- 
lamation, letting go the old clergyman’s 
arm. “ There is no power on earth could 
prevent me from marrying Mrs. Dartmouth. 
I believe, now that she is free, there is no 
force on earth that could prevent her from 
marrying me,” he went on, with a heightened 
color and a broken voice, which testified to 
the violence he did to his inner self in speak- 
ing thus plainly of his dearest and most in- 
most thoughts. “ I love her, sir. . She loves 
me. We are pledged to each other, and 
nothing, nothing can part us.” 

“I trust,” returned Mr. Herbert, “that 
there may be no need to speak of your part- 


132 


THE WEDDING RING. 


ing. My knowledge of Mrs. Dartmouth 
during her residence among us prompts me 
to believe that the fullest possible inquiry 
into her antecedents will conduct only to an 
additional respect for her character. That 
inquiry, my dear George, is the merest pre- 
caution, the merest matter of form. As to 
the dispensation, that is a matter on which, 
until I know the facts of her former union, I 
cannot venture to speak. It is a matter for 
grave deliberation, not for — ah — haphazard 
guess-work.” 

“ You have heard my ultimatum, sir,” 
answered Venebles. “ No power on earth 
can keep me from fulfilling my engagement 
with Mrs. Dartmouth. I do not think — I 
cannot believe — that anything will force or 
persuade her to break her j)romise to me.” 

“You expressed a desire,” said the cleric, 
after a moment’s silence, “ that I should per- 
form the marriage service.” 

“Certainly,” said Yenebles. “It would 
add to my happiness, even in marrying Mrs. 
Dartmouth, that you should unite us.” 

“Nothing would give me sincerer pleas- 
ure,” said Mr. Herbert, “than to do so, if I 
can only satisfy my conscience that I am guilty 
of no breach of the laws of the church. But r 
I feel so strongly upon this point that I make 


ONE WAT OF LOOKING AT IT. 


133 


no apology for plain speech. If I find that 
I cannot so satisfy myself, it will be a X)ain- 
ful necessity imposed upon me by — ah — the 
necessities of the case to request you to ap- 
ply to another clergyman.” 

Yenebles gave a little shrug, half of vexa- 
tion and half of humor. 

‘‘Well, sir,” he said, “I can’t and shan’t 
try to prevent you speaking to Mrs. Dart- 
mouth on any topic you think fit. She may 
tell you what she will about her past life. 
As to your crotch — your views about this 
other matter — I warn you that I would marry 
Mrs. Dartmouth if she were fifty thousand 
widows rolled into one.” 

With this wholesale announcement of un- 
conquerable affection, Venebles turned his 
horse’s head again in the direction of Crouch- 
ford Court. 

•“You are going to call ux)on Mrs. Dart- 
mouth ? ” asked Mr. Herbert. 

“Yes.” 

“Will you permit me to accompany 
you ? ” 

“Certainly,” said Yenebles, and he and 
the clergyman walked on together. 


CHAPTER XIL 


ANOTHER WAY. 

A SMALL rustic, in an ancestral smock 
frock, covered with a rimless felt hat, 
and wearing a pair of enormous boots of ab- 
normal thickness of sole, was coming whist- 
ling along the road toward them at an easy 
pace, which quickened at sight of them to 
a shambling half run. On encountering the 
two gentlemen outside Mrs. Dartmouth’s 
gate, he touched a shaggy forehead and ex- 
tended a letter to Mr. Herbert. 

“I missed ’ee at the vicarage, sir,” he 
said. 

Mr. Herbert opened the letter, dismissiftg 
the messenger with a fatherly nod. He pe- 
rused the communication with lifted eye- 
brows, and handed it over to his companion 
with a gravely twinkling smile. 

‘‘ Mrs. Dartmouth wishes to see you, sir,” 
said Yenebles. 

“ As you see,” said Mr. Herbert. 

They passed into the house together, and 
had been seated in the wide reception room 
134 


ANOTHER WAT. 


135 


some five minutes when Mrs. Dartmouth 
entered. She was dressed in a riding habit, 
and carried a whip in her hand. She flushed 
a little at sight of Yenebles, and cordially 
greeted Mr. Herbert. 

“It is very good of you,” she said, “to 
answer my appeal so soon, when you must 
have so many calls upon your time.” 

“ I am always at your disposal, Mrs. Dart- 
mouth,” the reverend gentleman answered. 
“ Your messenger missed me at the vicar- 
age. I met him at the gate, where I had just 
encountered Sir George.” 

“If,” said Yenebles, looking at his watch, 
“ if you can let me know, Gillian, at what 
time you think your conference with Mr. 
Herbert will be over, I will get back then, 
and we can go for our ride.” 

“ But I want you to stay,” she answered. 
“I asked Mr. Herbert to come at this hour 
because we had already made an appoint- 
ment.” 

Yenebles sat and plunged into contem- 
plation of his boots. 

“I am all attention,” said Mr. Herbert. 

“You are aware,” she began, the color 
playing on her face and her breathing a 
little quickened, though her manner was as 
simple and unembarrassed as her words, 


136 


THE WEDDING RING. 


“ you are aware, Mr. Herbert, of the re- 
lationship newly established between Sir 
George Venebles and myself?” 

Mr. Herbert bowed. 

“I have heard it from Sir George himself, 
within the last half hour.” 

“ I took the liberty of asking you to call.” 

‘‘You did me the honor, Mrs. Dartmouth.” 

She acknowledged the stately mixture of 
correction and comjDliment by a slight bend 
of the head. 

“To make a communication to you. The 
circumstances of my engagement to Sir 
George, and of my position in this place, 
seem to me to be such as make it advisable.” 

“ My dear Gillian,” Yenebles broke in at 
this point, “pray allow me a word. You 
are free to make any communication to Mr. 
Herbert you please. But I have asked for 
none, and I desire none.” 

“It is best,” she said. “I should be un- 
worthy the honor you do me — of your love,” 
she added, with a little deepening of color, 
“if I permitted you to marry me except 
with the clearest possible understanding 
between us.” 

“Admirably said, Mrs. Dartmouth,” said 
Mr. Herbert. “You see, my dear Yenebles, 
you stand for love, who has always been 


ANOTHER WAT. 


137 


painted blind, I represent the church and 
the world.” 

“ Which have always had their eyes par- 
ticularly wide open,” interjected Venebles. 

Mr. Herbert let out a resounding cough of 
one syllable, deprecating levity, to call it by 
no harsher name. 

“ I have been told,” continued Gillian, ad- 
dressing him again, “ that you have leanings 
to auricular confessions.” 

“In a sense, yes. Without its perver- 
sions, its intrusions into domestic privacy. 
There are many things in the old formulas 
which might still be adopted, with — ah — 
modifications.” 

“Adapted,” murmured Sir George, “like 
plays from the French.” 

“On another point,” said Gillian, “I 
hear you hold rather old-fashioned views — 
you doubt the right of a woman who has 
once been married to marry again?” 

“Hum! Not — not entirely. There may 
be exceptions— spiritual dispensations. Di- 
vorce — of course, I hold with the Fathers 
to be abominable and un-Christian. Even 
when death intervenes, causing a temporary 
separation, it seems to me that the union of 
souls is still a living certainty.” 

“Ah!” said Gillian, softly, but with a 


138 


THE WEDDING RING. 


note of deep emotion in her voice, which 
made her auditors look at her — Mr. Herbert 
with a quickened interest, and Yenebles 
with a pitying affection. “The union of 
souls ! It is of that I wish to speak before 
you both — of that, and other things. It is 
right that my future husband should know 
the whole truth concerning my former mar- 
riage and my past life.” 

“I listen under protest, Gillian,” said Sir 
George. “I ask for nothing that it can pain 
you to tell.” 

“ It would pain me all the more to be 
silent, George,” she answered. 

She paused for a moment before beginning 
her recital. 

' “I was a mere child when my mother 
died, so young that I can scarcely remember 
her at all. My father had till that time 
practiced as a doctor in London, but at my 
mother’s death he gave up his practice, and 
retired to a little town in the midlands. He 
had been very successful in his profession, 
and besides the money he had earned in that 
way, had a small private fortune, so that we 
were in more than easy circumstances. He 
was passionately devoted to science, and 
after his retirement from practice devoted 
his whole time to his studies and experi- 


ANOTHER WAT. 


139 


ments, leaving me to the care of an old 
nurse, who had been my mother’s favorite 
servant, and who idolized me. I was the 
only child. I grew up under her guardian- 
ship, not the best in the world, perhaps, for 
a self-willed child, seeing little of my father, 
who passed nearly all his waking hours in 
his laboratory. I would not have you think 
that I blame my father, or think of him with 
anything but the warmest love and respect. 
He was the kindest and best of men, gener- 
osity and gentleness in person, and he loved 
me dearly. But he was absorbed in his 
scientific studies, and so long as I looked 
happy and contented when we met, he never 
dreamed that there was more .to wish for. I 
learned what and how I liked, and studied 
or idled as the fit took me. It was a happy 
life,” said Gillian, with a sigh, ‘‘a long 
dream of happiness, but not the best prepa- 
ration for the duties and struggles of the 
world. 

“ The place in which we lived was a very 
small one — little more than a village — and 
from two years of age to seventeen I had 
never been five miles away from home, so 
that between the unceasing affection of my 
father and my nurse, and my ignorance of 
everything in the world which I had not 


140 


TEE WEEDING RING. 


learned from books, I was little more than a 
child in knowledge when already almost a 
woman in years. I can look back on myself 
as I was then, quite dispassionately. I had 
many faults. I was willful and petulant, as 
spoiled children who have never had their 
whims crossed are sure to be. I was very 
ignorant of life, and my brain was filled 
with nonsensical dreams and ideas, some 
drawn from the novels and poetry which 
were all I cared to read, some the birth of 
my own ignorance and girlish folly. But I 
was as innocent and honest a girl — I can 
truly say — as I have ever known. Looking 
back to that time through the miserable 
years which separate the poor girl from the 
woman I now am, the contrast is all to her 
advantage. 

I was just seventeen when I first saw 
my husband. He came to the village on 
a sketching tour. He managed to scrape 
acquaintance with my father by pretending 
to have a great interest in some scientific 
problem on which my father had just pub- 
lished a book. He was an extremely clever 
man, Avith a ready address and a certain 
ease of manner which imposed on most peo- 
ple very readily, and he had, more than any 
other person I have ever known, the art of 


ANOTHER WAY. 


141 


pleasing and interesting the people he de- 
sired to stand well with. A less clever man 
might easily have made a conquest either of 
my father or myself. He, poor old man, fell 
a complete victim. In a week he could talk 
of nothing else but this new acquaintance. 
He had made himself my father’s pupil and 
secretary, and it was my father’s constant 
cry that he was a man of scientific genius, 
who, if he had had the necessary training, 
would have been one of the greatest lights of 
the age. I can remember and understand 
now by what means he gained my father’s 
affection, how he played on his simple vanity 
and flattered his foibles. I learned more 
afterward, and from him. It was one of 
his favorite amusements to tell me, after 
our marriage, how he had cheated and de- 
ceived the good old man, who grew to love 
him in a month or two almost as a son. 

“ My father fell ill, and after only a week’s 
confinement knew that his case was hope- 
less. In his last days all his thoughts were 
for me. He reproached himself bitterly for 
his neglect of me; the only terror death had 
for him was that he must leave the child he 
loved, alone and unprotected in a world of 
which he knew as little as I myself. Philip 
— that was my husband’s name — played on 


142 THE WEDDING RING. 

this terror with such success that the day 
before his death my father begged me to 
marry him there and in his presence. His 
belief in this man amounted to a mania, 
though he had known him scarcely three 
months. He implored me with tears to 
make his last hours happy, ‘ happier,’ he 
said, ‘ than he deserved to be after his neg- 
lect of me ’ — to let him know that he did not 
leave me unprotected. I consented. What 
else could I do ? Put yourself in my place, 
Mr. Herbert ; imagine the circumstances.” 

“Did you love this man?” asked Mr. 
Herbert. 

“Ho,” said Gillian. 

“ A bad beginning,” said the clergyman. 

“ Bad, indeed,” said Gillian. “Ho, I did 
not love him. I admired him, I thought 
him clever, handsome, like the heroes of 
novels I had read, but he had not touched 
my heart at all. But my father begged me 
to marry him, and in his anxiety for my 
welfare painted the future of an unj)rotected 
girl so black and full of danger, that I con- 
sented. To be quite honest with you, there 
was a dash of romance in this marriage to 
a semi- stranger, by the bedside of a dying 
father, which appealed to my silly fancy. 
Don’ t think worse of me than I deserve. I 


ANOTHER WAT. 


143 


loved my father truly, devotedly, and was 
desolate at tlie thought of losing him ; but I 
felt that it was like an event in a novel or a 
play, and felt a sort'of pleasure in making a 
poetic figure. 

“For the few days in which my father 
lingered, and for the few other days after 
his burial, during which we remained in the 
village, my husband’s conduct not merely 
gave no cause for alarm, but was most affec- 
tionate and considerate. Then, without any 
warning, he suddenly told me that the house 
and grounds were sold, and that we were 
going to London. Arrived there, he took 
rooms in a street in the West End. I was a 
perfect stranger in the town, without a 
friend or even an acquaintance, and perfectly 
at his mercy. We had hardly been in Lon- 
don a week before he began a systematic 
course of insult and neglect, which lasted 
till our separation. He would leave me 
completely alone for days at a time. My 
remonstrances were treated with cool con- 
tempt, and, on more than one occasion, were 
answered by violence.” 

“ For God’s sake ! ” broke out Yenebles, 
“why should you torment yourself in this 
fashion ?” 

“Let me finish, George,” she answered. 


144 


THE WEDDING BING. 


“Half-confidence is no confidence. I will 
be as brief as I can. I found I had married 
a libertine and a drunkard. He had a truly 
diabolical cunning, which he loved to exer- 
cise. When guests were present, he acted 
affection and respect in a fashion which 
would have deceived any witness. Always, 
in the presence of a third person, his con- 
duct was the very perfection of considera- 
tion ; when we were alone — I cannot sj)eak 
of it. His hypocrisy was the most horrible 
of all his vices. I had married a man with 
neither heart nor conscience — one base be- 
yond conception, — cold, calculating, horribly 
impure. And, as I fully awoke to the 
wretchedness to which I had bound myself, 
I became a mother.’’ 

“ Have we not heard enough, sir ? ” asked 
Yenebles, turning with a groan of pain and 
impatience to Mr. Herbert. 

“ Be patient, George,” said Gillian. “ If 
I could bear it, surely you can bear to hear 
of it, now that it is all over so long ago. 
When my child was a few months old I 
learned that we were ruined. My fortune 
had gone, every penny, in ’gambling and de- 
bauchery. Grade by grade we sank lower 
and lower, till at last we were actually starv- 
ing — I and my darling Dora. He^ mean- 


ANOTHER WAT. 


145 


while, made enough money by the exercise 
of his talents as an artist for his own needs, 
dressed like a gentleman, and took his 
pleasures abroad, only returning to the 
miserable garret in which he lived, when he 
was penniless, to do a few. hours’ work 
whereby to provide money for his pleasures. 
Dora was ill— she was dying of want of nour- 
ishment and fresh air. She would have died, 
had it not been for a friend — God bless him ! 
a truer friend, a better man never broke 
bread. He gave me ten pounds with which 
to take her for a time into the country. My 
husband heard that I had the money. He 
seized it, and, when I attempted to prevent 
him, he struck me to the ground. For 
weeks after I lay in the hospital. While I 
was convalescent, news came of the death of 
a relation in Australia. He had left me a 
sum of money, with which I came here and 
bought this farm. The rest you know.” 


CHAPTER XIIL 


A THUNDERCLAP. 

AT tlie end of Gillian’s recital there was 
/v silence for a moment. Then Yenebles 
rose, and taking Gillian’s hand, kissed it. 
There was a flash of moisture in his eyes, 
and his voice trembled as he spoke. . 

“ What you have told us only confirms my 
faith in you, my deep affection. Hencefor- 
ward, God willing, you shall lead a new life, 
indeed.” 

‘‘Let us hear Mr. Herbert, George,” said 
Gillian. 

“I have heard your story, Mrs. Dart- 
mouth,” said the clergyman, “with the 
deepest interest and compassion. I pity 
you, yet cannot altogether absolve you.” 

“What!” cried Sir George, almost 
fiercely. “Has she not suffered enough ? ” 

“More than enough,” .said Mr. Herbert, 
gently. ‘ ‘ A heavy penalty for a wrong com- 
mitted in the thoughtlessness of youth.” 

“What wrong has she committed 1” 
asked Venebles. 


146 


A THUNDERCLAP, 


147 


‘‘The union she has described, a loveless 
union, can scarcely be defended. From its 
nature, perhaps, sprang many of her misfor- 
tunes. And let me ask another question. 
The name you bear is — ah — your hus- 
band’s? ” 

“JSTo.” 

“Another error,” said Mr. Herbert. 

“Nonsense,” cried Yenebles, “it was a 
perfectly justifiable step.” 

“Deception of any kind is never justifia- 
ble. It is — ah — a violation of those spiritual 
veracities on which society is founded.” 

“Perhaps,” said Yenebles, who relished 
as little as may be imagined the application 
of abstract principles of morality to the con- 
duct of the woman he loved ; “ perhaps she 
- might have done better to advertise in the 
public prints that she had come into a for- 
tune, and that Mr. (whatever the black- 

guard’s name may be) was humbly requested 
to return to his disconsolate wife, now that 
she had something more that he might rob 
her of.” 

“George, George!” said Gillian, in a 
tone of remonstrance. “ And the dispensa- 
tion, sir?” 

“ On that point, if you have acquainted 
me with the actual facts, I have little or no 


148 


THE WEDDING BING. 


doubt. You have never, in the spiritual 
sense, been a wife at all, and under the cir- 
cumstances — I say under the circumstances — 
you may be justified in again marrying.” 

“Bravo!” cried Sir George. “The 
Church comes round to common sense after 
all!” 

“The informality, however,” continued 
Mr. Herbert, “must be at once set right. 
Your true name is ” 

“ My husband’s name,” said Gillian, “was 
O’Mara!” It was the first time for seven 
years that it had passed her lips. 

“Then, Mrs. O’Mara, I must ask you to 
correct this sad mistake at once. When it 
is done, and not until it is done, I shall 
have pleasure in performing the marriage 
ceremony.” * 

“ I will ask you to reconsider that point, 
sir,” said Yenebles. “In the mean time, 
dear, we will go for our ride. The horses 
are waiting.” 

“ I hope, Mr. Herbert,” said Gillian, 

“ that you will lunch with me when we 
return.” 

“I have a little correspondence to do,” 
said Mr. Herbert, referring to his watch, 
“and it is a long step from here to the 
vicarage.” 


A THUNDERCLAP. 


149 


‘‘Then why not do your writing here?” 
said Gillian. “ You will find the materials 
in my desk there. If you should need any- 
thing you have only to ring, and Barbara 
will attend on you. Shall we find you here 
when we return ? ’ ’ 

“ You are extremely good, Mrs. — ah ” 

He boggled over the unfamiliar name and 
ended by omitting it altogether. “You will 
find me here, or in the garden.’ ’ . 

“ Au revoir,’’^ said Yenebles, and led his 
fiancee from the room. Mr. Herbert watched 
them mount and canter away. 

“A painful story,” he said, sitting at Gil- 
lian’s desk. “ Well, her troubles should be 
over now. Yenebles is a good fellow, and 
his affection for her is evidently very deep. 
Hardly such a match as he might have as- 
pired to, or as I could have wished him to 

make ; but Well, well, I hope they 

may be happy.” 

He bent himself to his correspondence. 
The day was hot, and his walk and the long 
conference with Gillian and Sir George had 
tired him, and he nodded over the paper un- 
til he dozed. How long he had been uncon- 
scious of his surroundings he did not know, 
but he returned to consciousness to find a 
voice ringing in his ears, and turned in some 


150 


THE WEDDING RING. 


confusion to the direction from which it 
came. 

A man was standing just within the door. 
He was a tall, well built, athletic looking 
fellow, with a bronzed face, clean shaven, 
and a mass of dark brown hair, touched with 
gray about the ears and at the temples. 
His dress was shabby, though of originally 
good materials, and in its cut and in his 
careless fashion of carrying it hinted at the 
artistic pursuits of its wearer, a hint strength- 
ened by the sketch book he held in his hand. 

“ Ten thousand pardons,” he began, as Mr. 
Herbert rose in surprise at his apparition. 
“ Do I address the owner of the house ? ” 

‘‘Ho,” replied Mr. Herbert. “ It belongs 
to ^ friend of mine — a lady. She is absent 
for the moment, but will return presently.” 

“Indeed. Thank you. It is a charming 
old place. I have just made a sketch of it 
from the outside, and was going to ask per- 
mission to see the interior.” 

“ An artist, sir ? ” asked Mr. Herbert. 

“An amateur,” said the stranger. He 
spoke with a rather affected accent, and with 
a self-conscious smile. ‘ ‘ You, sir, I per- 
ceive, are in holy orders.” 

“I am the Yicar of Crouchford, sir.” 

The stranger bowed, with a flourish of the 


A THUNDERCLAP. 


151 


broad brimmed wideawake lie held in liis 
hand. 

‘‘I salute you, sir. If there is one thing 
in the world I reverence, it is religion. I 
look upon it as the mother of art.” 

“ It has, I should hope, even greater 
claims upon our reverence than that,” re- 
turned Mr. Herbert, obviously pleased how- 
ever ; ‘‘though I would not be understood 
as underestimating your beautiful occupa- 
tion. Pray come in. The lady of the house 
is so old a friend of mine that I may take it 
upon myself to play cicerone. You are a 
stranger in the neighborhood ? ” 

“ Quite. In fact, almost a stranger in 
England. I am just returned after a long 
sojourn abroad, and am wandering hither 
and thither at accident, reviewing old im- 
pressions. There is something in the English 
atmosphere, in English scenes and institu- 
tions, indescribably refreshing. Decay is 
always beautiful.” 

“Eh?” said Mr. Herbert, a blank stare 
of astonishment succeeding to the smile with 
which he had listened to the first part of this 
speech. 

“Decay is the beauty of our England,” 
continued the stranger. “Its sleepy con- 
ventions, its moldering habitations, its mil- 


152 


THE WEDDING BING. 


dewed churclies, its mossgrown religion, 
delight me inexpressibly.” 

“ I trust, my dear sir,” said Mr. Herbert, 
whom the stranger’s fluent chatter had rather 
put at sea, ‘‘ I trust that you are one of 
us. I mean, I hope that you belong to the 
church which is the symbol of our civiliza- 
tion ? ” 

‘‘ I am a Churchman, sir — a fervent Church- 
man. That is a very flne bit of black oak, 
by the way, and, pardon me — yes. That de- 
lightful bit of color. Yes, sir, I am a 
Churchman. To be frank with you — I hope 
I may be so fortunate as to And your views 
correspond with my own — my leaning is to- 
ward the higher and most symbolic forms of 
Episcopacy.” 

“ I am delighted to hear it.” It did not 
occur to the worthy clergyman that he was 
at least as obviously High Church in his 
dress and appearance as his interlocutor was 
obviously artistic. 

^‘Dissent is so radically unlovely , its forms 
are so bare, so harsh ; its teachings void of 
grace.” 

This was an utterance which chimed in 
with Mr. Herbert’s mind. 

“ The furnishing of this place,” said the 
stranger, ‘ ‘ is worthy of its exterior. It gives 


A mUNDEROLAP. 


153 


me a keen desire to make the acquaintance 
of your friend. Such perfect taste.” 

“ Mrs. Dartmouth is a lady of good taste,” 
said Mr Herbert. ‘ ‘ A most charming and 
accomplished person.” 

“ Mrs. Dartmouth ! ” repeated the stranger. 
‘‘That is her name? A piano? Excuse 
me.” He ran his fingers deftly along the 
keys. “An exquisite tone. Ah!” He 
gave a slight shudder and struck a solitary 
note, listening with corrugated brows. 
“ That F is a semi- tone flat.” 

“You play ? ” said Mr. Herbert. 

“ A little,” replied the artist, with a depre- 
catory smile. 

“ I am sorry Mrs. Dartmouth is from home. 
She would be delighted in this dull place to 
meet a person so accomplished.” 

“ Oh, pray don’t call me accomplished. I 
am simply an amateur of the beautiful. I 
am so constituted that what is beautiful 
alone gives me pleasure— next, of course, to 
what is religious. The terms are really inter- 
changeable. Religion, true religion, the re- 
ligion of which you are an exponent, and 
I the humblest of devotees, is the soul of 
beauty. Only religion interx)rets thus the 
full meaning of the beauties which make up 
the sum of life. A sower passing with 


164 


THE WEDDING RING. 


measured footsteps, posed like a god, from 
furrow to furrow, with the sunlight spark- 
ling on the seeds as he casts them, making 
them gleam like golden rain — a star, a flower, 
a dewdrop — life is full of such felici- 
ties, which, justifled by their beauty, are 
divine.” 

“You talk, my dear sir, like a poet.” 

“ I hope 1 have the poet’s nature.” 

“ You write ? ” 

“A little.” 

“Bless me, you seem to do everything.” 

“A little.” 

“And you have traveled ?” 

“A little. You don’t mind me sketching 
as we talk ? That chimney piece is delight- 
fully quaint.” 

The conversation was interrupted at this 
point by the entrance of Dora. She came 
running in with her hair streaming and her 
eyes sparkling and her lips parted to com- 
municate some childish confidence to her old 
friend, when she caught sight of the stranger, 
and paused. 

“Ah!” said the latter. “A child! I 
love children. And how very beautiful ! 
Come to me, my rosebud. What is your 
name? It should be a pretty one.” 

“ Dora,” said the child, looking up at him 


A THUNDERCLAP. 


155 


shyly through the tangle of her disordered 
hair. 

He took her hands in his and drew her to 
him, looking at her with a curious scrutiny. 
“ C'^est Men he said, under his breath. 

“Oh,” she said, catching sight of the 
sketch-book on his knee, “you are draw- 
ing. Please go on. I am learning to draw. 
Mamma is teaching me.” 

“A charming little pupil. Would you 
like me to teach you % ” 

“ I like mamma best.” 

“Charmingly frank, these little people,” 
said the artist, with a smile. 

“Can you paint houses?” asked Dora. 
“Mamma can.” 

“Oh yes, I can paint houses — and little 
girls, when they are pretty.” 

“You must be very clever,” said the 
child, solemnly. 

“ I am considered fairly intelligent,” said 
the stranger, with his own smile. “Your 
mamma is out, this gentleman tells me.” 

“ Yes, she is riding with Sir George.” 

“ Oh, with Sir George. And your papa ? ” 

“I’ve never had a papa,” said Dora. 
“But I’m going to have one soon.” 

“Really. That will be delightful. How 
should you like me in that capacity % ” 


156 


THE WEDDING RING. 


“I should like you pretty well; but I 
like Sir George best. Why. do you laugh so 
much?” 

“You amuse me, my innocent child.” 
He stroked her hair with a lingering touch, 
and his face saddened. “Will you give me 
a kiss, little one ?” 

“Yes,” said Dora, shyly. “I like you.” 

The stranger kissed her, and, rising, 
walked to the window for a moment, pass- 
ing a handkerchief across his eyes. 

“Excuse me,” he said to Mr. Herbert, in 
an altered voice, as he returned. “ I had a 
little child once. She would be of about 
this little darling’s age, if she be still alive. 
And the same name. I am not ashamed of 
these tears, sir. My little child, my Dora. 
Where is she?” 

“My dear sir ! ” said Mr, Herbert. 

“ I must not afflict you with my sorrow,” 
said the artist, putting away the handker- 
chief after passing it again across his eyes ; 
“but these memories will return at moments. 
There ! ” He bent over the child again. 
The beat of horses’ hoofs became audible, 
nearing the house. “Music is the cure for 
such sorrow as mine. Do you love music, 
my darling ? ” 


A THUNDERCLAP. 


157 


“Yes,” said Dora. “ And I like to dance. 
Sir George plays waltzes for me.” 

“ Come then.” 

He sat at the piano, and dashed into a 
lively tune with the manner of one trying to 
banish unpleasant memories. Dora flitted 
round the room, and was watched with a 
pleased smile by Mr. Herbert. The sound 
of horses’ feet came near, and paused on the 
gravel before the door. The tune changed 
suddenly from the lively rhythm of the 
waltz to “Home, sweet home.” 

“ Mamma, mamma ! ” cried Dora, pirouet- 
ting to the door. “Come and see the funny 
gentleman.” 

Gillian, her face flushed with free air and 
exercise, entered the hall, followed by Sir 
George, and stopped for a moment at sight 
of the stranger. He, with his Angers still 
playing the melody, turned half round upon 
the music stool. 

“ Gillian ! ” he said softly, smiling. 

The poor woman’s face changed to a look 
of stony horror. 

“Philip !” 

She spoke the name scarcely louder than a 
whisper, and fell fainting into Sir George’s 
arms. 


CHAPTER Xlt. 

THE BRIDE OF JACOB’S FLAT. 

T hree years before tbe meeting de- 
scribed in our last chapter, a number of 
men were assembled around the bar of the 
only drink-house in Jacob’s Flat, a rough 
mining settlement within a two days’ ride of 
San Francisco. 

It was Saturday night, and drink of all 
kinds was flowing like water. Every one 
seemed in high spirits, from the burly, 
bearded fellows in red shirts who were 
lounging against the bar, to tlie little group 
of gamblers seated at small tables and en- 
gaged busily at cards. 

Though oaths were common, and the 
general conversation scarcely fit for ears 
polite, everybody present seemed in remark- 
able good humor, and the merriment had 
reached its highest when Prairie Bill, a 
giant of six feet, known to his facetious in- 
timates as “ Prairie Oyster ” (the name also 
of an insidious kind of American drink), 
158 


THE BRIDE OF JAGOBB FLAT. 159 

dashed his fist upon the counter, lifted up 
his glass in the air, and exclaimed : 

“ H’yar’s Jake’s health and fam’ly ! Long 
life to Jake and her ! ” 

The toast was received with acclamation, 
and drunk with enthusiasm. 

“ What time, now, do you calc’ late they’ll 
be a-coming to Parson’s Ford?” asked a 
little thick-set man with the lingering re- 
mains of a strong Cockney accent. 

“Wal, ye see,” said Bill, refiectively, 
“ the coach passes the Big Creek at 'arf past 
three, and it’ll take the wagon two hours or 
more to reach the Ford in this weather. 
You bet they won’t be thar afore daylight. 
I say, boys,” he added, raising his voice, 
‘‘ who’s a-going to ride over ? ” 

“ Who’s a-going to ride over?” echoed the 
little man, contemptuously. ‘‘Better ask, 
who’s a-going to stay ? I ain’t seen a bloom- 
ing female since the school-mistress was 
drowned last year, poor thing, and I’m 
curious to see what kind of petticoat Jake’s 
married.” 

“Married her up to Frisco, didn’t he?” 
demanded another voice, that of a new- 
comer. 

“Put your bottom dollar on that,” said 
Prairie Bill, proudly ; “ and if you don’t be- 


160 


THE WEDDING RING. 


lieve me, thar’s Jake’s pardner — ask him to 
show you her pictur.” 

The partner alluded to, an old man busily 
engaged in a game of euchre, looked up and 
nodded ; whereupon he was immediately 
surrounded by the whole assembled com- 
pany, clamorously demanding to see the 
picture in question. Determined, however, 
not merely to gratify public curiosity, but 
to do a stroke of business, he expressed his 
determination not to assent until every man 
had planked down a five dollar note, ex- 
plaining at the same time, however, that the 
amount was not to go into his own pocket, 
but to constitute part of a home-coming 
present for Jake’s wife. 

The money was soon collected, some en- 
thusiasts even doubling and trebling the 
amount demanded from each individual, and 
then, with much solemnity and amid a hush 
of expectation, Jake’s partner drew out from 
his bosom a small packet, wrapped carefully 
in brown paper, took off the paper with great 
deliberation, and exposed to view a some- 
what dingy colored photograph, which he 
handed to his next neighbor, enjoining him 
at the same time to handle it very carefully 
and to limit his possession of it to the space 
of half a minute. 


THE BRIDE OF JACOB'S FLAT. 161 

Thus the picture was passed round from 
hand to hand, excited spectators crowding 
eagerly round each man as he took his turn, 
and uttering cries of critical admiration. 

Purty dear ! ’’ 

“ She’s yaller ’air, like my own sister 
Eliza ! ” 

“ ’Taint yaller neither — it’s brown ! ” 

“ She’s a-smiling ! ” 

“ Jake was allays lucky ! ” 

‘‘There’s gloves on her.’ands, and they’d 
’bout fit my thumb ! ” 

“ I reckon she aint more’n eighteen ! ” 
“I’d give a million dollars for a wife like 
that ! ” 

And so on, and so on ; till the photograph 
reached a dirty, blear-eyed man, far gone in 
intoxicatfon, who, instead of adopting the 
decorous manner of his companions, uttered 
a drunken croak and Mssed the picture. 
Dire was the tumult evoked by that act of 
outrage. Shrieks and oaths arose, and be- 
fore he could realize what had occurred, the 
offender was kicked from group to group 
and shot out through the open door into the 
drift without, where he lay like a log. Mean- 
time, Prairie Bill had snatched the photo- 
graph away, and striding back to Jake’s 
partner, handed it back with these words : 


162 


THE WEDDING BING. 


“Jest you put up that pictur agin, Jim 
Collier ! ’Taint fair to Jake Owen ter make 
liis wife a show like that ! ” 

A sentiment which elicited a cheer of 
approval from the majority of the com- 
pany. 

Jim nodded, and with one respectful 
glance at the photograph wrapped it up 
again and concealed it in his bosom. Then 
striding back to the bar. Prairie Bill de- 
manded a glass of spirits, and drained it off 
to the health of “ Jake’s wife.” 

The excitement awakened by the mere 
sight of a woman's photograph may be better 
understood when we explain that every man 
in Jacob's Flat was a bachelor, and that, 
beyond one or two wretched squaws who 
hung around the place, women, whether fair 
or plain, were almost utterly unknown. 

Men had been known to ride a hundred 
miles across country to catch a glimpse of a 
female passing in the stage coach, and when 
an emigrant Avagon containing members of 
the softer sex was heralded as about to cross 
the plains anywhere Avithin reach, the rough 
felloAvs of Jacob’s Flat would strike Avork 
and gallop over to the nearest halting place 
to await the passers-by. 

To those rough fellows a Avoman or a child 


TUE BRIDE OF JACOB B FLAT. 


163 


was sometliing far off, mysterious, and con- 
sequently almost sacred. 

So when the news first went around that 
Jake Owen, one of their number, was going 
to ’Frisco to meet a young Englishwoman, 
who had come out all the way from the old 
country on purpose to marry him, the ex- 
citement was tremendous. Although there 
was a general opinion in that region that 
Jacob’s Flat was hardly the i)]ace to bring a 
lady to, Jake’s “luck” was the universal 
theme of conversation. And when, some 
weeks after Jake’s departure, his partner 
received the photograph, witli an intimation 
that “Mr. and Mrs. Owen” were speedily 
returning home, the local excitement rose to 
fever heat. 

For if every white woman was a paragon 
to the members of this colony of bachelors, 
this particular white woman seemed a posi- 
tive goddess — with soft, child-like face, 
gentle eyes, little hands, and the dress of a 
downright little lady. Jacob’s Flat was not 
a moral place, its inhabitants were violent 
and often murderous in their habits, but 
honesty of a sort was at a premium, and the 
ethics of society postulated of necessity a 
certain standard of purity. Had the original 
of the picture appeared there alone and un- 


164 


THE WEDDING BING. 


friended, slie would have found herself as 
safe and as respected as a lady in her own 
drawing-room ; for though one or two hope- 
less desperadoes might have looked upon 
her with evil eyes, the Avhole spirit of the 
community would have been certain to pro- 
tect her. Offers of marriage, of course, she 
would have had by the hundred, but beyond 
that necessary homage to female beauty, no 
citizen would have had the temerity to pre- 
sume. 

At early daybreak the following morning 
Jacob’s Flat was almost deserted, but on the 
banks of a narrow river, fifty miles away, 
‘Prairie Bill and his companions sat, waiting 
and expectant. 

‘‘This is bloomin’ slow,” said Simpson, 
the cockney. ‘'It’s light enough now to see 
the pips by. Let’s ’ave a flutter, eh boys ? ” 

“Flutter be !” said Prairie Bill, to 

whom the suggestion was more directly ad- 
dressed ; “let’s ride along and meet the 
wagon.” 

This suggestion meeting with more favor, 
the whole cavalcade were soon in motion, 
riding in loose order along the faint lines left 
in the deep grass by the last passage of the 
coach a fortnight before. 

Simpson, one of the many accredited hu- 


THE BRIDE OF JACOB'S FLAT. 


165 


morists of the little community, looking 
about him at his companions, under the 
slowly broadening light, remarked on the 
unwontedly spruce appearance they pre- 
sented : 

‘‘ I begin to think as I’m in Pall Mall. 
There’s Chicago Charley. Look at him ! I’m 
blowed if he hain’t washed hisself.” 

“I’ll wash you^^'* said the individual thus 
rendered remarkable, “ in the creek, if I get 
much more of your chin music.” 

“An’ Bill, too,” continued Simpson, ig- 
noring the threat; “he’s combed ’is ’aii*. 
Sure you’ve got the partin’ straight, 0I4 
pal?” 

“Shut your head!” growled Bill; and 
Simpson obeyed, seeing in the stolidly ex- 
pectant faces of the party that his cheer- 
ful impertinences were for once out of 
place. 

The party rode in silence save for the muf- 
fled beat of their horses’ hoofs in the grass 
and the creaking of the saddles, till Simpson 
began to whistle the Wedding March. The 
air was perhaps unrecognized, at all events 
nobody joined in it, and the discomfited 
humorist stopped midway through it with 
a forlorn grin, lit his pipe, and rode on as 
silent as the rest. 


166 


THE WEDDING MING. 


“There she comes!” cried the foremost 
horseman — a long, loose, saturnine Yankee, 
who had once been a harpooner on an Amer- 
ican whaler. He rose in his stirrups, point- 
ing with a forefinger straight ahead. A dim 
speck was visible on the horizon beyond the 
undulating billows of grass. 

“Come along, boys,” cried Bill, clapping 
spurs to his horse, and the whole crowd 
started at a brisk gallop with a ringing 
cheer. 

The dim speck grew every moment in 
distinctness as they flew toward it, till it 
grew recognizable, to sight less keen than 
that of the old whaler, as the St. Louis ex- 
liress. 

“That’s Kansas, drivin’,” he said to Bill, 
who rode abreast of him. “They’ll be 
aboard of her, I i:eckon. See his rosette! 
And the horses have got streamers on.” 

These and kindred remarks passed from 
mouth to mouth as the distance, between the 
galloping crowd of horsemen and the ap- 
proaching coach grew less. 

“ Let’s give ’em a salute,” suggested Simp- 
son, and a sudden crackle of revolver shots 
resounded over the mufiled beat of hoofs. 
Kansas waved his long whip, and rose in 
his seat, lashing his horses to a faster gallop. 


THE BRIDE OF JACOB’S FLAT. 167 

and the last half mile was covered at racing 
pace. 

The band of horsemen formed about the 
coach like a breaking wave around a bowl- 
der, yelling and whooping like a crowd of 
fiends, and blazing away with their revolvers. 
A man’s head and shoulders emerged from 
the window, and in the interior a glimpse 
was visible of a pale and terrified female 
face. 

“ Dry up,” roared Bill, “ ye pack of 
howling fools ! Ye’ll skeer the soul out of 
her ! ” 

A sudden silence fell upon the party, 
broken by a tuneful ringing cheer, led by 
Simpson with a shrill, “Ip, ip, ’ooray!” 
and a dozen hands were thrust out to seize 
that of the male traveler. 

‘‘I took ye for a gang of prairie ruffians,” 
said the latter, with a strong provincial 
English accent. ‘‘Ye frightened the little 
woman. It’s all right, lass,” he continued. 
“It’s the boys from the camp, come over to 
give us a welcome, bless their hearts.” 

He sank back in his seat and gently pushed 
his bride to the window. 

She looked out, with the pallor of her re- 
cent fear still on her cheeks— a frank, deli- 
cate face, which made the photograph the 


168 


THE WEDDING RING. 


men had admired on the night before seem 
a clumsy libel on her living beauty. Every 
man in the crowd drew a deep breath as she 
ran her still half -frightened glance along 
their bronzed and bearded faces. They re- 
turned the gaze with ardent eyes, sitting 
like statues about the arrested vehicle, star- 
ing at this wonder of womanhood dropped 
from the skies to share their rough lives. 

“ God bless you, my beauty, and welcome 
to the Flat,” cried an unmistakably English 
voice, and amid another cheer the coach 
started again. The girl’s face, which had 
flushed rosily at the words, paled again at a 
stray shot of rejoicing from some ardent 
spirit, who was immediately knocked out of 
his saddle by a neighbor and sharply anath- 
ematized by his companions. ' 

Coach and escort moved forward at a 
moderate pace, keeping time to a song 
started by a Spaniard in the van, a gravely 
joyful measure, sung in a rough but melodi- 
ous voice, which lasted until the halting 
place of the coach was reached. Here Jake 
opened the coach door, and springing to the 
ground, assisted his wife to descend. 

The men dismounted from their horses 
and formed a circle about the couple. The 
girl was quite self-possessed now, and when 


THE BRIDE OF JAG0B*8 FLAT. 169 

Jake took her hand and led her a step for- 
ward, smiled brightly in answer to the cheer 
which greeted her. 

“ These are my friends, Jess, and you 
must make ’em yours,” said Jake. ‘‘ Good 
friends they’ ve been to me, through fair and 
foul.” 

She put out a little gloved hand to Prairie 
Bill, who blushed redder than she as he took 
it, and, after wringing it with unnecessary 
force, dropped it and looked a trifle foolish. 
There was no man in the crowd who did not 
envy him, but no other claimed the honor 
thus bestowed. 

“I’m very glad to meet you all,” said Jess, 
“and I’ m very thankful for your kindness 
to Jake — to my husband.” 

The voice was sweet, and only one or two 
in the crowd could recognize that its accent 
was almost as strong as Jake’s. But she 
might have been far less pretty than she was 
in face and speech, her femininity and her 
youth were as a strangely potent wine to 
insure the worshiping affection of every man 
in the party. 

“ Talk o’ that gal at Dutch Gulch as Poker 
Sam married last year ! ” said Prairie Bill to 
Simpson. “Reckon we lay over the Gulch 
this deal. We’ve got a lady.” 


170 


THE WEDDING RING. 


Not one among them had any touch of 
mean envy of his companion’s luck. 

“A reg’lar daisy and no error,” said 
Simpson. “I ’ope the lady can ride, 
matey,” he continued, to Jake; “we’ve 
bought a little ^oss for her — our weddin’ 
present. She’s a nice little thing and as 
quiet as a lamb, ma’am.” The others looked 
with awe and respect at Simpson, entering 
thus easily into converse with the radiant 
goddess. 

“Ride!” cried Jake, proudly, “she can 
ride nigh on a’ most anything. Country 
bred, she is. My county, Essex.” 

Jess clapped her hands delightedly at 
sight of the horse, a pretty little beast, of 
mustang strain, gorgeously caparisoned in 
scarlet Mexican leather. 

“I don’t know what to say,” she cried, 
“it’s too beautiful! Thank you. Thank 
you all, ever so much.” 

“Give her a lift, Simpson,” said Jake, 
with the air of Jove distributing favor to 
mortals, and the blushing Cockney stooped 
to the little foot and lifted the bride to her 
saddle amid another cheer. Jess shook hands 
with Kansas, and thanked him sweetly for 
the care he had taken of her during the long 
ride from ’Frisco. 


THE BRIDE OF JACOB'S FLAT. 


171 


‘‘ I wish I had something as pretty to take 
care of every journey,” said Kansas, with 
the air of a man who meant it, and, Spartan 
in his sense of duty, waved his hat and drove 
away with the empty coach, as the caval- 
cade, headed by the bride and bridegroom, 
set out at a gentle gallop for Jacob’s Flat. 


CHAPTER XV. 


AT JACOB’S FLAT. 

F or a year after his wedding Jake Owen 
was as happy a man as the most enthu- 
siastic of the crowd of celibate women 
worshipers among whom he lived could have 
believed him to be. The district was one of 
the richest within a few days’ ride of San 
Francisco, and Jacob’s Flat was one of the 
luckiest camps in California, but Jake’s 
good fortune was so singular as to cause him 
to be known to everybody as “ Hapj)y Jake.” 
His luck became legendary ; it was averred 
of him that he had only to stick his spade 
into the ground to make gold, however un- 
likely the spot might be. 

Xobody grudged him his good fortune, 
thought it was only human nature to envy 
it, for Jake was emphatically what his com- 
rades called him, “a white man,” with a 
sturdy English honesty of character supple- 
mented by much kindly shrewdness learned 
in his travels, and by a native happiness of 
172 


AT JAOOB’8 flat. 


US 


temperament and generosity of heart. His 
popularity doubled with the arrival of his 
wife, and the “ Duchess,” as she was called 
with affectionate pride, had every reason to 
be as happy as her husband. 

Whatever rude luxuries were possible in 
so wild a place were here. Jake’s cabin 
windows were beautified with colored hang- 
ings, its earthen floor was concealed by a 
carpet of the gaudiest procurable pattern, 
and Jake, in the full flower of his honey- 
moon happiness, had gone the length of pro- 
curing a piano from San Francisco. The 
circumstance that neither Jess herself nor 
any other person in the camp knew a note 
of music, detracted nowise from the satis- 
faction of Jake and his comrades in the pos- 
session of the instrument. The piano was a 
splendid fact, a fitting background to the 
beauty and distinction of the ‘‘Duchess.” 
There was no piano in Dutch Gulch, which 
one-horse community persisted in an attempt, 
which might have seemed almost profane 
had it not been so hopelessly absurd, to pro- 
claim its equality with the Flat. 

It befell, upon a certain hot and dusty 
summer evening, that Jake Owen, returning 
from a distant town on the hillside, came, 
at the outskirts of the camp, upon a man 


174 


THE WEDDING RING. 


lying by the wayside under a tuft of azalea 
blossoms. 

Jake’s first impression was that the man 
was intoxicated, liis second that he was 
dead. He lay with his arms broadcast and 
his open eyes staring at the sky, and the 
breast of his shirt was caked with stiffened 
blood. 

Closer examination, however, disclosed 
that he was still alive. Jake poured the 
remnant of the whisky left in his flask down 
his throat, and, as the man gave signs of re- 
turning consciousness, propped him against 
the bank at the roadside, ran to the saloon, 
and pressed into his service a couple of men 
drinking there, who, provided with a broad 
plank and a blanket, bore the sufferer to 
Jake’s cabin. 

There was no qualified doctor in the place, 
but several of its inhabitants had some rough 
notion of surgery, and it was evident to the 
little knot of men who gathered in Jake’s 
sitting-room that the wounded sufferer was 
in a very critical condition. 

“A darn’d ugly cut,” said one critic. 
“ The knife slid off the rib, you see. He’s 
lost a sight of blood. Say, what’r ye goin’ 
to do with him, Jake ?” 

“Keep him till he’s better,” said Jake. 


AT JACOB’S FLAT. 


175 


“Eh Jess? Why lass,” he exclaimed, see- 
ing her look a little doubtfully at the suf- 
ferer, “ye wouldn’t have us throw him out 
on the road again ? Do as ye’d be done by. 
It might be my turn to-morrow.” 

“He must be taken care of, of course,” 
said Jess. 

“He’ll want missing, too,” continued 
Jake, “and you’re the only woman in the 
camp ; we’re the best able to afford it too, 
thank God ! ” 

The girFs not very strong opposition to 
her husband’s proposal was easily under- 
stood, for the wounded man was a ghastly 
object. He had smeared his face with his 
own blood, and the red dust of the road had 
caked upon the stain. His hair was wild, 
his cheeks rough with a week’s unshaven 
beard, his clothes foul with blood and mire. 

They got him to bed and dressed the 
wound with the best rough skill at hand. 
It was not intrinsically serious ; a large flesh 
wound, rendered dangerous by effusion of 
blood. When the stains had been washed 
from the sufferer’s face, an instantaneous 
change of opinion regarding him took place in 
Jess’s mind. He was a distinctly handsome 
fellow, of a species of male beauty not com- 
mon in the Flat. His features were finely 


176 


THE WEDDING BING. 


cut and delicate, his hands soft as a woman’s, 
his hair abundant, and wavy and silky as 
Jess’s own. 

“A gentleman, I should think,” said 
Jake; “English, too.” 

It was a day or two before the wounded 
man recovered consciousness, and a longer 
time still before he could give any coherent 
account of himself. 

Then, at long intervals, for he was weak 
from loss of blood, he told him his story. 

He was an Englishman, as Jake had sur- 
mised. His name was Philip Mordaunt. He 
had been traveling in America for some 
years, painting, hunting on the jirairies, 
and recently, more for love of adventure 
than for need of money, as he hinted rather 
than said — had been digging. He had made 
a little i)ile at Empire Camp, and had started 
on horseback for ’Frisco with his partner, 
also an Englishman. Some twelve hours 
before Jake had found him, the partner had 
treacherously stabbed him, rifled his body 
of all his possessions, and ridden off with 
the horses. He had crawled with great diffi- 
culty to the spot where he had been dis- 
covered, and there had Anally lost con- 
sciousness. 

“I should have died but for you,” he 


AT JACOBIS FLAT. 


177 


said, pressing Jake’s hand with his delicate 
and feeble fingers. “ How can I ever repay 
you. I haven’t a penny in the world.” 

“ Pay me ! ” answered Jake ; “who talks 
of payment, sir? You pull round, that’s 
what you’ve got to do, and we’ll talk about 
payment later on. We’re rough folks, sir, 
but we’re proud to be able to serve a gen- 
tleman in misfortune — and from the old 
country, too. That we are,” said Jake, 
heartily. 

It was Jake that Mordaunt thanked with 
his lips, but he kept his eyes on Jess’s face. 
Fine eyes they were — dark, lustrous, and the 
more interesting to a woman from the deep 
humidity with which weakness and suffering 
had filled them. 

When once Mordaunt had definitely 
turned the corner of his illness, it was not 
long before he was sufficiently convalescent 
to leave his bed. The denizens of the Flat 
were a roughish lot, but they were not with- 
out their sympathies, and Jess’s patient 
became a favorite with them, many prefer- 
ring to come to the cabin in the evening to 
take a quiet smoke and drink with him and 
his host, to passing the evening at the bar. 
Mordaunt was hail-fellow-well-met with all 
who came, accepting the deference they paid 


178 


THE WEDDING RING. 


him as his due, but friendly and familiar 
with them. 

It was reckoned as another specimen of 
Jake Owen’s wonderful luck that he should 
have had the privilege of finding such a 
guest. He was a delightful companion, full 
of stories of travel, jokes, and repartee. 

One night, toward the end of his conva- 
lescence, Jess told Jake that morning that 
she had found him playing on her piano. 
A universal demand for music followed this 
revelation, and ‘ Mordaunt, nothing loth, 
played a score of airs for them, good old 
simple home tunes they had not heard for 
years, and sang, in a rather weak voice, 
“Tom Bowling” and “Annie Laurie.” 

Affectionately interested already, the camp 
acclaimed him that night as its king and 
hero. The musical evenings became a fea- 
ture, and drew so splendidly that Pat Mc- 
Closky, the bar keeper, after declaring that 
it was no longer any use in keeping a saloon 
to which nobody came, and seriously enter- 
taining thoughts of going elsewhere to make 
his livelihood, hit on the magnificent idea of 
offering Mordaunt two hundred dollars a 
week and his liquor to play nightly at his 
establishment. * Mordaunt cemented the ad- 
miration of the camp by refusing the offer. 


A 2^ JACOB'S FLAT. 


179 


‘‘I play to please my friends,” he said, 
“not to make money.” 

The camp swore by him, and swore at Mc- 
Closky copiously and in many languages. 
Pete Durgan, the half-witted, half-breed 
fiddler came to the camp on his round, and 
when it was found that Mordaunt could play 
as brilliantly on his instrument as on the 
piano, there was no reserve stock of enthu- 
siasm left to draw upon. 

Mordaunt’ s recovery became complete, but 
there was no hint of his leaving Jake Owen’s 
shanty. Indeed, so far from anything of the 
kind being mooted, Jake had, with his own 
hands, in the intervals of necessary labor, 
built out an additional room to his shanty, 
and furnished it even more gorgeously than 
his own parlor for the accommodation of his 
honored guest. Mordaunt repaid his hospi- 
tality by teaching Jess to play the piano, in 
which art she made astonishing progress 
under his skillful tutelage, and by painting 
a portrait of her which the simple digger 
and his chums looked at as the most won- 
derful effort of white magic in their experi- 
ence. His only other occupations were to 
lounge about the camp and the bar, to play 
poker and euchre, at which games he was a 
proficient, and to write letters for illiterate 


180 


THE WEDDING RING. 


‘‘ pikes ” with friends and relations in other 
parts of the world. 

Now, a camp of diggers is not the kind of 
community which shines in morals when con- 
trasted with a well-regulated convent or a 
boarding school, and Jacob’s Flat was not 
on a higher kind in such matters than other 
places of like nature. But almost every 
conceivable set of social conditions results in 
its own peculiar scheme of morality, and in 
one or two particulars a man who knew the 
world would have found the crowd among 
which Jake Owen and his wife passed their 
lives a" curiously simple and Arcadian peo- 
ple. 

They were habitual devotees of the whisky 
bottle, and spasmodically addicted to the 
use of the knife and pistol. They were 
always more or less coarse, and often profane 
in the language, their play at poker and the 
other games they loved was often more 
remarkable for skill than for strict probity. 
There were men among them who would have 
been shy of entering any civilized city, even 
San Francisco, which at that date was not an 
oppressively 5 .moral community, and who 
would have been shot at sight or judicially 
hanged in the Eastern cities. They were a 
rude and desperate lot, but, with all allow- 


AT JACOB’S FLAT. 


181 


ance for their less amiable side, they had 
their virtues. 

Like desperate men in general, they had a 
high ideal of personal friendship, and a de- 
testation of anything resembling treachery. 
A friend, to them, was a man in whose hands 
a man might trust his possessions and his 
life, with a sense of absolute security. 

As regarded women, they were not per- 
haps much more logical in their views than 
the rest of the world. In towns and cities, 
where women are plenty, they had as little 
sentimental regard for feminine purity as 
any Parisian boulenardier., and their vices 
lacked the saving civilizing grace. But in 
the camp, where the fairer halt of humanity 
was represented by one woman, they clothed 
her, half unconsciously, with every attribute 
of sacredness. 

She would have been safe from all but 
blunt and honorable courtshi];) had she been 
alone among them. But she was a chum’s 
wife, and the lowest blackguard of the crowd 
would have been ashamed of harboring a 
thought against his happiness ; she was 
something apart from and above them ; she 
breathed a finer air, seemed of another order. 

So that Mordaunt’s constant presence in 
Jake’s house, his continual association with 


182 


THE WEDDING RING. 


his friend’s wife, the intimacy he never tried 
to conceal, which would in another kind of 
community have excited suspicion and re- 
mark, and would have stamped the simple 
Jake either as a fool or as a too complaisant 
husband, seemed the most natural and inno- 
cent business to the simple-minded crew of 
desperadoes. Mordaunt owed his life to 
Jake, the clothes he wore, the food he ate. 
Their almost superstitious reverence for the 
only pure woman many of them had known 
since childhood, the high value their danger- 
ous lives had taught them to put on comrade- 
ship and gratitude, and Mordaunt’ s open 
bearing and universal friendliness of man- 
ner kept them from such suspicion as people 
of infinitely more reputable life than theirs 
would have jumped at without hesitation. 

The halcyon dream of happy Jack’s life 
was doomed to be rudely broken. The sim- 
ple, honest heart had no skill to read the 
sign of the coming disaster, which grew so 
plain to him in later days. 

It was the old sad story, so often told, 
which we may allow to pass as an episode 
in this chronicle without long dwelling on 
its details— the story of the dull loving hus- 
band, whose affection has grown stale and 
commonplace to the poor silly woman who 


AT JACOB’S FLAT. 


183 


has won it, of the smooth polished man of 
the world, gradually weaning her heart from 
the accustomed round of daily duties with 
which it has grown content. 

Jess was as innocent a little creature as 
drew breath, not in the least wicked, only 
weak and fatally fond of admiration. The 
handsome, glib, clever stranger had trapped 
wiser women than she in his time, and at 
every turn he contrasted with Jake and the 
rough crowd about him. To the ignorant 
little woman his manners seemed those of a 
royal prince, his knowledge and his accom- 
plishments prodigious and superhuman. 

She felt the fascination growing, and did 
her feeble best to fight against it. Jake re- 
membered after, how pathetically she had 
clung to him ; how, in a thousand ways, her 
apparent love for him had gone on strength- 
ening almost to the dreadful hour when he 
learned her sin. 

The discovery had come suddenly. Jake 
returned home one night to find the cabin 
empty. There was nothing in that to excite 
his suspicions ; it had happened a score of 
times before that Jess and Mordaunt had 
gone out riding or walking together, and had 
let the meal time slip by. 

He cooked his own modest supper, ate it 


184 


THE WEDDING RING. 


with a good appetite, and dozed peaceably 
over his pipe and a week-old copy of a 
’Frisco newspaper. 

He grew imeasy with the passage of time, 
and toward midnight strolled out to the 
saloon to learn what news he might of the 
missing couple. 

Nothing had been seen of either since 
noon, when they had started for a ride to- 
gether. 

Next morning news came. They had been 
seen at nightfall forty miles from the camp. 
The meaning of that was clear even to the 
simplest mind. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE PURSUIT. 


HE wretched man on whom this heavy 



J- blow had fallen like lightning from a 
summer sky was, as is usual in such cases, 
the last to hear the dreadful news. 

It came to him in a fashion characteristic 
of the time and place. He was sitting alone 
in his cabin, devoured with curiosity regard- 
ing his wife and friend, racking his brain to 
discover some admissible reason for their 
absence, some method of assuring himself of 
their safety, without a shadow of suspicion 
of the terrible truth, when a distant beat of 
horses’ hoofs came to his ears, and a minute 
later a score of men galloped up to the cabin, 
drew bridle, and entered. 

They ranged themselves in front of him as 
he stared at them, and for a full minute 
there was a silence, broken only by the paw- 
ing of the horses outside and by the occa- 
sional shuffle of a boot upon the floor. 

“Well, boys ! ” said Jake at last, in a tone 
of question. 


185 


186 


THE WEDDING BING. 


There was another interval of silence, and 
Simpson elbowed Prairie Bill to the front. 

‘‘You speak,” he said. 

Bill cleared his throat with unnecessary- 
loudness, fidgeted uneasily with the breast 
of his shirt, stooped and wiped a splash of 
red mud from his boot with his forefinger, 
and finally said : 

“We’ve bad news, Jake.” 

“News,” said Jake. “Of Jess — Mor- 
daunt ?” 

Bill nodded with a sudden grimness of 
face. 

“What about ’em ? Where are they 1 ” 

There was another silence, and then Bill 
spoke again. 

“They were seen last night at eight 
o’clock, together, just along by Pete’s 
Pocket.” 

Jake’s look was one of pure relief and ex- 
pectation. 

“ Thank God, they’re alive, anyhow ! ” he 
said. 

A man in the background broke into a 
hoarse, short laugh. 

“I’m glad you’ve got something to laugh 
at,” said Jake. “ What’s the joke? Don’t 
keep it all to yourself.” 

The men looked at each other as if in 


THE PURSUIT. 


187 


doubt if this unsuspecting ignorance could 
be real. 

“ Has anything happened, anything bad ? ” 
he continued. “I’ve often told Jess that 
she shouldn’t get too far from home. It’s a 
rough place, and there’s a good many bad 
characters about, as might hurt even her. 
But Mordaunt was with her. Is it him ? 
Has anything come to him ? He’d stand by 
her, I know.” 

Simpson uttered a sort of groan. Jake’s 
face turned in his direction with a sudden 
pallor and wonder on it, and then he looked 
to Prairie Bill. The burly ruffian’s face was 
full of an almost womanly i)ity. 

“ You’ve got to know,” he said, “though 
I’d a blame sight rather cut my tongue out 
than tell ye.” 

He manned himself to the disclosure. 

“ She’s gone, Jake ; she’s left ye.” 

“ Left me ! ” cried Jake, rising. 

“ She’s left ye for that white-faced, white- 
livered, sneakin’ snake — that Mordaunt.” 

Jake sprang to his feet, with his eyes 
blazing. 

“ ! ” he cried, “I’d have the blood of 

e’er another man alive as said it ! ” 

“ We’re old pards, Jake,” said Bill. “It 
hurts me as much, pooty nigh, to say it, as 


188 THE WEDDim RING. 

it does yon to hear it. But it’s true. What 
else can it be — but that? We’re out after 
’em, and you’d better come along.” 

Jake came forward, with his arms ex- 
tended, like a blind man, or like one grop- 
ing in black night in an unfamiliar .i)lace. 
He looked along the line of faces, grim, res- 
olute, but pitying, and after swaying for a 
moment like a drunken man, rushed from 
the cabin to the mud shanty where his horse 
was stabled. 

For three hours the party rode, in dead 
silence, till they sighted a solitary horse- 
man riding across their trail. They shouted 
to him and rode on at a gallop ; he waited 
for them. A rapid fire of questions resulted 
in nothing save that, early that morning, 
just after dawn, on the other side of Pete’s 
Pocket, he had remarked the track of two 
horses, side by side. It was the faintest of 
clues, but they followed it, in the same grim 
silence. Jake seemed the only man in the 
crowd who rode without thought or pur- 
pose. He was dazed, and only occasionally 
raised his eyes to look with a dumb, pitiful 
hopelessness about the prospect. 

By hard riding they reached Pete’s Pocket 
in the early afternoon. It was a deserted 
mine, long since worked out and abandoned. 


THE PURSUIT. 


189 


with the doubled solitude of a once popu- 
lous place, which has fallen back to its pris- 
tine savagery. By the clues their inform- 
ant had given, they found the trail, and 
followed it till evening was closing in. 
Jake’s dazed mind had seized upon it as 
something positive and actual, and the 
sight of the hoof prints had strung him to 
as intense an interest in the hunt as was 
shown by his companions. It made for the 
rising ground in the direction of San Fran- 
cisco, till suddenly, at the foot of a little 
eminence, it split, one line of the track going 
straight on, the ojlier inclining to the coast. 

A halt was called, and a hurried consulta- 
tion held. 

“ It’s a pretty thin dodge,” said Simpson. 
‘‘Both them roads lead to ’Frisco — there 
ain’t any other place ye can get to from 
here in that way.” 

“That’s so,” said Bill, “and, see here 
now. This to the left is a heap heavier 
than the other. That’s his trail — sposin’ as 
it’s him at all, and that’s her’s. Small 
prints, ye see, just such as the little mare 
would make. We must split, boys. I’ll 
follow the big track. You’d better take the 
other lot. Winch’ll you go with, Jake ? ” 

To the momentary surprise of everybody 


190 


THE WEDDING BING. 


present, Jake elected to follow Mordaant’s 
trail. 

‘‘Means business,” said Simpson to liis 
lieutenant, as they trotted along the lighter 
trail. “ He’ll blow daylight into that covey 
when he finds him — see if he don’t.” 

Not a word was spoken among the other 
party, who galloped on along the trail till 
the lights of the city came in sight, and the 
track was lost among a hundred others. 
They made for the office of the police, then 
a newly organized force, recently succeeded 
to the functions of the old vigilance com- 
mittee. Their story was heard, and all pos- 
sible assistance was at once promised. 

“We’ll make a house to house visitation, 
if need be,” said the captain. 

By this time the other party, headed by 
Simpson, arrived, and the whole contingent, 
worn out with their long ride, made for a 
saloon for meat and drink. 

Jake sat stonily among them. He refused 
food, but drank, and presently went out and 
roamed among the crowd in the streets, 
peering in the faces of every couple that 
passed him. A dozen times his heart thrilled 
at the distant glimpse of a figure resembling 
that of Jess or Mordaunt. 

When past midnight, he rejoined his com- 


THE PURSUIT 


191 


panions ; the captain of police was with 
them. He had vague news of a couide who 
answered somewhat to the descriptions of 
the missing parties. They had ]3assed 
through the town separately, making no 
stay there, and it was- supposed that they 
had gone in the direction of Los Perros, a 
mining settlement twenty miles inland. 

They had a start of nearly twenty-four 
hours, and even if they were the peoi)le 
sought, such an advantage made the chase 
look very hopeless. 

‘‘We’ll follow,” said Bill. “Saddle, 
boys.” 

They tramped out of town, and did the 
distance on their jaded horses in two hours, 
only to learn that Los Perros knew notliing 
of the runaways. 

“ They’ve doubled on us, Jake,” said Bill. 
“It’s a royal flush to a busted sequence 
agen us now.” 

“We never ought to ha’ left ’Frisco,” 
said Jake. “ It’s a biggish place ; they can 
lie quiet there for a bit, and then start across 
for New York, or take ship for somewhere.” 

“They’ll watch the boats for us,” said 
Bill. “Our best holt is to strike in and 
cover the country.” 

He and his mates were stanch to the cause 


192 the wedding ring. 

of friendship, though they had little enough 
hope of success in their search. 

“We must spread ourselves, ’Mie contin- 
ued, “ and cover all the ground w^e can.” 

He rapidly mapped out all possible routes 
which miglit be taken by the fugitives, and 
told olf the men to follow them. Some rest 
was distinctly necessary for the horses, 
though one or two of the most ardent, among 
whom were Jake and Bill, managed to effect 
exchanges of their tired beasts for fresh 
ones, and to start at once. The final rallying 
place was the Flat, at which all the party 
were to put in an appearance in two days or 
send news of the trail they were pursuing. 

The men straggled back to the Flat, on 
the second day, newsless and hopeless. 
There was absolutely no trace. The fugi- 
tives had vanished as utterly as if they had 
melted into air. Even conjecture was at 
a standstill. Police and volunteers had 
dragged the whole country side as with a 
net. Every possible course of action had 
been tried, but Jess and her seducer had 
melted beyond pursuit. 

The betrayed husband took the successive 
disappointments with a stony calm, sitting 
in the little room in which he had known so 
many tranquilly happy hours. 


THE PURSUIT. 


193 


•‘Thank you, my lad, thank jt'ou, kind 
and hearty, for what you’ve done,” he said 
to each, as he unfolded his tale of failure. 
He had not broken bread since the solitary 
supper he had eaten three days ago, or closed 
his eyes during the chase, but when the last 
straggler had come in, he ate heavily, and 
fell to sleep with his arms on the rude table 
and his head laid upon them. An hour or 
two later he came to the claim where his 
partner was working. 

“I want to talk to you,” he said, and led 
the way to his shanty, his partner following. 

He waved him to a seat, and set a bottle 
before him. 

I want to talk to you,” he said again. 
“A bit of business.” He sat for a space, 
and then repeated, “a bit of business.” His 
eyes, wandering around the room, fell upon 
Jess’s portrait, painted by Mordaunt, which 
hung upon the wall. He went and took it 
from its place, tore it from its frame with a 
sudden, deliberate strength, rent it to rib- 
bons, and cast the fragments into the grate. 

'‘The claim’s been yielding pretty fair,” 
he said, after sitting down again. “I want 
to sell it. Will you buy? ” 

“Sell!” said his partner. “What d’ye 
want to sell for ?” 


194 


THE WEDDING RING. 


‘‘Pm leaving tliis place,” said Jake, ‘^and 
I want money.” 

He spoke quite calmly, and the other, who 
necessarily guessed his puiqDose, Was sur- 
prised at the quietness of his manner. 

“She ain’t worth it, Jake. Nor him. 
Let ’em rot. Can’t ye wait till luck gives 
ye a chance, and go for him then ?” 

“ What’s the claim worth ? ” asked Jake, 
in reply. 

“ Pll stand you five thousand for it,” said 
the other, falling into his companion’s humor 
with a scarcely susceptible shrug of the 
shoulders. 

“ Pll take four,” said Jake. “ That’s as 
much as it’s worth. Let me have the brass 
to-night, mate.” 

He nodded a dismissal, which his partner 
obeyed, promising to bring the money before 
nightfall, and left alone, began to busy him- 
self with his simxfie arrangements for his 
journey. He filled his saddle-bags, loaded 
his revolver, weighed his dust and nuggets 
before dropping them into the belt about his 
waist, and then went out and groomed and 
fed his horse, doing all those little tasks in 
a quiet, every-day fashion. No stranger 
who had witnessed his prex)arations could 
have guessed the nature of the journey he 


THE PURSUIT, 


195 


meditated, the faint chance of . even the 
tragic measure of success which was all that 
was left to him to hope for. His face was 
as a mask, his movements quite orderly and 
regular. His arrangements completed, he 
sat down beside the window in the fading 
light, quietly smoking and waiting for his 
partner. 

The man came. He placed a bag on the 
table. 

I reckon ye’ll find that about right,” he 
said, “if ye’ll heft it. It’s two thousand, 
and that’s the rest in greenbacks.” 

“ Thank you,” said Jake, and there was a 
moment’s silence. 

“ I said ye’d like to go alone,” continued 
the partner. “’Taint the kind o’ business 
ye want other folk foolin’ round. Some of 
the boys talked about coming, but I stopped 
’em.” 

“ I’ d rather be alone,” said Jake. ‘ ‘ Thank 
you, Tom.” 

“They’d take it kind if ye’d just turn 
into the saloon for a drink. They’d like to 
say good-by to ye.” He saw a sj)asm cross 
Jake’s face in the dim light. 

“Well,” he said, “perhaps so, if ye’d 
rather not. Good-by, old pard.*” 

“Good-by. My love to the boys. God 


196 


THE WEDDING BING. 


bless ’em all. I shan’t forget ’em, however 
the luck goes.” 

They grasped hands and parted. 

An hour after, news came to the saloon 
that Jake had started. As they stood about, 
discussing the tragedy of the last three days, 
a red glare shone through the windows of 
the bar-room. It grew momently brighter, 
and cries and shouts came from its neigh- 
borhood. 

The men trooped out, and ran toward it. 
Before they had advanced a hundred yards, 
Jake’s partner cried ; 

“It’s Jake’s shanty. He must ha’ fired it 
’fore he left.” 


CHAPTER XYII. 


A LIFE CHASE. 


OR many a day after that wild parting 



J- the mind of Jake Owen seemed a dark 
blank, lit up only by the fiery thought of 
revenge. 

As a man moves from place to place 
in sleep, performing every function with 
strange mechanical certainty and under the 
influence of some mysterious will, yet know- 
ing and remembering now, the miserable 
creature followed on the track of Jess and 
her companion. From city to city, , from 
house to house, he passed like a shadow ; 
sometimes gaining a false clue which drew 
him hopelessly hither and thither, at others 
absolutely certain that he was pursuing the 
right trail. He ate and drank, walked or 
slept, like any other creature ; his manner 
was gentle and reserved toward all he met, 
only his fixed jaw and absent eyes express- 
ing the determination on which his soul was 
set. 


197 


198 


THE WEDDING RING. 


He reached Denver City, and there, by 
cunning inquiry, he learned news which 
placed him almost beyond doubt that his 
wife and Mordaunt had rested together for 
several days at one of the best hotels in the 
place, and had then, only twenty-four hours 
before his arrival, taken the night cars for 
New York. 

He followed on at once, and in due course, 
after a long and dreary Journey, arrived in 
the great city. Here, however, he lost all 
trace of the fugitives ; they were swallowed 
up in that great sea of human being. 

Convinced in his own mind that New 
York had been their destination, and that 
they were somewhere there in hiding, he 
haunted the streets daily, made inquiries at 
the principal hotels, and was down on the 
quays, with watchful, bloodshot eyes, when- 
ever there was an outgoing steamer — for it 
was possible, he thought, that the guilty pair 
might endeavor to put the seas between 
them and their pursuer. 

All was in vain. Days passed into weeks, 
and he was still without a clue. 

Meantime his hungry passion for revenge 
was consuming him like fire, wasting the 
flesh from off his bones, devouring and de- 
stroying him, so that he was gray and old 


A LIFE CHASE. 


199 


before Ms time. He had but one thought 
and prayer, to find the woman and her para- 
mour, and to destroy them without mercy. 
Sometimes Avhen he feared his life might fail 
before that dreadful purpose was achieved, 
he sobbed to himself in agony, and prayed 
God to give him strength till the hour of 
retribution. 

The wistful, childlike face of the wife he 
had loved was ever before his eyes, side by 
side with the mocking smiling, face of Mor- 
daunt. He could not bear to think that 
the two were somewhere together, laughing 
perhaps at his misery. 

This torture of a nature overstrung by 
misery could not last forever. One day, as 
he was standing on the quays, watching one 
by one the passengers streaming across the 
gangway on to the deck of a great ocean 
steamer, his force failed him, his heart seemed 
to burst in two, and he fell like a stone. 

It would have been merciful if death had 
taken him then, and had spared him the 
torture which was to come. However, he 
did not die. A little later, he was tossing 
fever-struck in one of the wards of a great 
hospital. 

Terrible as his position now was, it was 
tempered with a certain mercy, for often in 


200 


THE WEDDING RING. 


his delirium his mind went back to the past 
and seemed to forget the present. He talked 
with his old wild comrades at the mine, he 
spoke to them of the pretty bride who was 
coming to him from England, he Avas in the 
streets of ’Frisco waiting for her arrival, he 
was being married to her again as in the 
past. Then a wave of despair Avould seem 
to sweep over him, and he would shriek 
out and stab at some unknown enemy, 
until in his agony he would swoon utterly 
aAvay. 

Had the man not been made of iron fiber, 
he Avould certainly have died ; but full of 
superhuman strength he fought inch by inch 
with death. 

‘‘If he recovers,” thought the kindly sur- 
geons of the hospital, “*he will be a madman 
all the rest of his life.” 

The prognostication proved a false one, 
unless we are to assume that one murderous 
master-passion is in itself a proof of mad- 
ness. He recovered, and he was not mad — 
that is, he was to all outward seeming 
rational enough. Questioned of the trouble 
which seemed to x>ossess his soul, he an- 
swered quietly and cunningly, declining all 
explanation. But he was eager to be gone, 
and after a rapid convalescence left the hos- 


A LIFE CHASE, 


201 


pital and, like a blind man grasping for tlie 
light, passed out into the street. 

He remembered little of the past, but the 
thought of his wrong was still clear and 
vivid. His furious excitement seemed to 
have passed away ; he no longer moaned and 
raved as during his fierce agony, but there 
was no failure of his purpose, as he searched 
hither and thither to ascertain if, during his 
illness, the fugitives had escaped him. 

Nearly two months had now j)assed since 
Jess Owen and Mordaunt had fled from 
Jacob’s Flat. 

It was quite clear now to Jake Owen that 
he had been following a fool’s trail, and 
that the persons he sought were not in New 
York at all— possibly had never come so far. 
Had they been in the city, some trace of 
them must have been found, for he had 
spared neither toil nor money to unearth 
them. Mordaunt’ s personal peculiarities, he 
knew, would mark him out in any company. 
If in New York, they would certainly have 
been heard of in the public places, yet every 
bar, drinking saloon, hotel, or gambling 
haunt had been searched in vain. 

Poor Jake was stupefied ; unable to decide 
what to do, or whither to turn. 

He took lodgings now in a rough place, 


202 THE WEBEim Eim. 

half beer-house, half hotel, but regularly 
every day he made the pilgrimage across 
the ferry to New York. Then, strangely 
enough, he thought for the first time of con- 
sulting a lawyer, and wandering one day by 
the Tombs he entered the dingy, dirty offices 
tenanted by the great firm of criminal prac- 
titioners, Messrs. Hawk & Fourmart. He 
sent in his name and, after waiting for 
nearly an hour in the company of divers 
evil-looking clients, was ushered into the 
presence of Mr. Hawk, the senior partner, a 
little keen-eyed gentleman of the Hebrew 
persuasion. 

Mr. Hawk knew everybody and every- 
thing ; he was at once the smartest and 
most disreputable legal practitioner in the 
State. 

Jake told his story. The lawyer, after 
listening patiently, looked him from head 
to foot,. observed his haggard, almost hungry 
looking countenance and his equally woe- 
begone apparel, and shrugged his shoul- 
ders. 

‘‘ It’s a difficult job,” he said, “ and can’t 
be done without expending a heap of dol- 
lars.” 

Jake’s eyes gleamed. Thrusting his hand 
into the breast of his coat, he drew out a 


A LIFE CUASE. 


203 


handful of greenbacks, and slapped them 
down on the table. 

Don’t let tJiat stoY> ye ! ” he said hoarsely. 
‘‘ I can pay for what I want — only just you 
tell me this : Can I find the man I want ? ” 

Mr. Hawk looked less dubious. 

‘‘ You are certain they’ve not left the 
country?” he asked. 

‘‘No,” was the reply; “I’m certain of 
nowt but this — that I’ll find ’em, dead or 
alive.” 

“And then? What course would you 
propose to take ? A divorce, certainly.” 

“A divorce!” echoed Jake. “Yes, a 
divorce, if you like to call it that.” Then 
putting his face to the lawyer’s, he said, “I 
mean to Jclll ’em — that’s the kind ’o divorce 
I’m after.” 

Mr. Hawk pursed his lips, glanced at the 
bundle of greenbacks, and smiled. 

“You’ll think better of that my man,” 
he observed, blandly. “ However, your 
future course of action is no business of 
mine. What you ask us to do is to find out 
a certain person or persons. Well, I’ll do 
my best.” 

Jake grasped his hand. 

“Now, describe the man Mordaunt as 
accurately as possible. 


204 


THE WEDDING RING. 


Jake did so, and the sense of liis great 
wrong made him eloquently pictorial. He 
imitated Mordaunt’s voice and gestures, 
described his character and general bearing 
to the life. 

Mr. Hawk reflected. 

“I believe I have seen the man you de- 
scribe,” he said, quietly. ^‘He conversed 
with me, as you are doing, in this very 
office.” 

Jake gasped and almost staggered, while 
his eyes gleamed with eager anticipation. 

“But that,” the lawyer continued, “w^as 
over a year ago, before the unhappy episode 
you have been describing. He was then 
acting, under another name, at the Bowery 
Theater. A thorough rascal ! We did some 
business for him — got him out of some gam- 
bling trouble— and he rewarded us by de- 
clining to pay our costs.” 


CHAPTER Xyill. 


ON THE TRACK. 

J AKE OWEN left the web of the legal 
spider with a certain sense of relief. He 
had heard wonderful reports of the amazing 
cleverness of Mr. Hawk (that charmingly dis- 
interested gentleman had only asked a small 
advance of five hundred dollars in advance for 
expenses), and he was impressed in his dull, 
stolid way by the lawyer’s promises of 
ultimate success. He went back to his 
lodging, ate a good meal, and then slept 
soundly — for the first time during several 
days. He would wait patiently till the good 
news came. 

As Jake Owen was on his way homeward, 
there was being dispatched from New York 
to Nokota Town, a small settlement some 
forty miles up the Hudson River, a telegram 
to the following effect : 

You had better see us at once. Serious business. 

Hawk & Fourmart. 


205 


206 


THE WEDDING RING. 


The telegram was addressed to 

Mr. Horace N. Stoddard, 

Black’s Hotel, 
Nokota Town. 

Early the next day Mr. Horace H. Stod- 
dard, alias Mordaunt, elegantly attired in 
winter costume and sealskin overcoat, en- 
tered Mr. Hawk’s office. 

‘‘I am eternally grateful,” he said, after 
hearing Mr. Hawk’s account of the interview 
with Jake Owen. ‘‘The man is a ruffian, 
and I shall adopt measures of self-protec- 
tion.” 

“I think you had better,” returned the 
lawyer, “or you’re a dead man. By the 
way, what are you doing now ? ” 

“Helping the man Black to run his hotel, 
and playing cards with his customers. But 
I’m tired of it. I’ve thrown it up, and I sail 
for England in three weeks.” 

“You are a remarkable man, Mr. Stod- 
dard,” said Mr. Hawk, admiringly, yet face- 
tiously. “Your talents will be wasted in 
the old country.” 

Mr. Stoddard, alias Mordaunt, smiled. 

“I can return the compliment,” he re- 
plied. Arcades amho^ eh?” 

“ And this woman, is she with you ? ” 


OJ^ THE TRACK, 


207 


“No, she has left me.’’ 

And he drew out a pocket handkerchief, 
and sighed. 

‘ ‘ Left you ? Since when ? ’ ’ 

“ About a month ago. That is to say, we 
had differences. She was one of those dread- 
fully retrospective jjersons who eternally 
reproach themselves and everybody — quite 
what the French call a pleureuse. It bored 
me. I suggested at last that she couldn’t 
do better than return to her husband. She 
made a scene. A few nights afterward she 
disappeared. Poor girl, I hope she hasn’t 
done anything foolish. The river is close 
by, and women of that temperament have a 
fascination for running water.” 

Even Mr. Hawk, though he belonged to 
the vulture species, was not quite hardened 
enough to be edified by words so cruelly 
flippant and pitiless. 

“Make certain of one thing,” he said, 
sharply, “this man, if he ever finds you, 
will kill you.” 

“ He will try,” returned the other, coolly, 
fingering the breast of his overcoat. “ But 
I always carry arms, and am a good shot. 
Honestly, I am very sorry for poor Jake. 
Had I thought that he would have taken 
the affair so much to heart, and that it 


208 


TEE WEDDING RING. 


would have entailed such an infinity of 
trouble on myself, I should never have 
disturbed his domestic hallucinations.’’ 

“ You sail in three weeks, you say.” 

“Yes.” 

“Avoid New York till then. I’ll keep 
the man busy.” 

“ Good. By the way. Hawk, I owe you a 
small account.” 

“ Which you will settle within a fortnight 
from to-day,” said Mr. Hawk, affably. 

Must I? Well, as you please, though 
I’m not all over well supplied with money. 
You may rely upon me.” 

After a few words more the two separated. 

As Mordaunt left the office, Mr. Hawk 
thus soliloquized : 

“ If the rascal attempts to sail without a 
settlement, I’ll put this madman on him. 
He deserves it, the infernal scoundrel ! But 
if he pays — well ! I never apjDrove of ex- 
treme measures.” 

Mordaunt, on his side, strolling quietly 
back to the railway station, soliloquized also: 

“I don’t trust my friend the vulture, and 
I don’t mean to pay him. He little guesses 
my passage is taken under an alias in the 
Mesopotamia^ which sails in ten days from 
now.” 


ON THE TRACK. 


209 


Two days passed, and Jake heard nothing 
from Mr. Hawk. Then, fierce and impatient,- 
he called again at the offices. 

“I was just going to write to you,” said 
the lawyer. “I think we have got a clue. 
There is a man living in Philadelphia who 
answers the description, and he is accom- 
panied by a female, whom he calls his 
wife.” 

Jake tottered and staggered, while Mr. 
Hawk, with well-simulated sympathy, gave 
him the address of a Philadelphia hotel. 
Jake clutched it wildly, and made for the 
door. 

‘‘Take care what you do!” cried Mr. 
Hawk, warningly. 

Jake made no answer, but turned a livid 
face on the lawyer, and vanished. Hasten- 
ing to the depot, he ascertained that there 
were no through cars to Philadelphia till the 
evening, so that he had several hours to 
spare. So he went to his lodging, strolled 
into the drinking bar, and carelessly took up 
an old newspaper. He was looking at it 
almost vacantly, turning his eyes from 
column to column, and scarcely knowing 
what he read, when his face went deathly 
pale, and he reeled on his seat like a 
drunken man. For staring him in the face. 


210 


THE WEDDING RING. 


as if written in letters of blood, were these 
words : 

Personal. If this should meet the eyes of Jake 
Owen, of Jacob’s Flat, let liim come to New York, 
and inquire of the Janitor of the — : — Hospital, New 
York City. He will hear news of one for whom he 
is seeking, and who prays for his forgiveness. 

The next minute Jake was in the street, 
hurrying up town in the direction of the 
hospital, one devoted entirely to patients of 
the female sex. He reached the place at 
midnight, rang the bell, and told his errand. 
The janitor at the door informed him that 
his wife was a patient there, but that it was 
impossible to see her at that hour — he must 
return next morning between visiting hours. 

“See her?” he shrieked, losing all self- 
control. “ I will see her, by ! ” 

A terrible scene ensued — the officers were 
summoned, and Jake was about to be 
ejected, when one of the physicians came 
upon the scene. 

“Don’t send the man away,” he said, “if 
he is, as he says, the woman’s husband. I 
don’t think sheJl last out the night. My 
man,” he added to Jake ; “ I must ask you, 
if we grant your request, to be very quiet. 
Nothing can save your wife — she is dying ! ” 
“Dying ! ” It seemed at that moment as 


OJ!^ THE TRACK, 


211 


if a thunderbolt had fallen on Jake Owen’s 
head. He was dumb with horror and de- 
spair. 

The rest the reader already knows from 
Jake’s own confession to Barbara. The last 
meeting of husband and wife, the scene in 
the dim light of the hospital ward, the last 
forgiveness and farewell, the quiet burial in 
the heart of the great city, are pictures 
already dimly guessed at, and not to be lin- 
gered over without pain. A few days later 
the broken man stood over his wife’s grave, 
and lifting up his haggard face to Heaven 
swore to continue his search for the man 
who had destroyed them both. 

Further interviews with the firm of Hawk 
& Fourmart proved of no avail. Mr. Hawk 
could not, or would not help him, and 
strongly advised him to return in peace to 
Jacob’s Flat. What was his astonishment 
one morning, therefore, to receive a message 
from Mr. Hawk, asking him to call at once. 

He hastened down to the office. 

think your man is found,” said Mr. 
Hawk, ‘‘ and I will give you his address on 
one assurance — that you do not contemplate 
any violence.” 

“ Ho ! ” cried Jake. “ Gie me the writing 
—I only want to look at him, that’s all.” 


212 


THE WEDDim BING. 


“ If you only want to looJc at him,” said 
Mr. Hawk, smiling, “go at once to Black’s 
Hotel, Nokota Town, on the Hudson Hiver, 
and inquire for Mr. H. N. Stoddard. I 
should advise you to lose no time, as Mr. 
Stoddard, alias Mordaunt, is about to de- 
part for the old country.” 

Jake rushed from the office, while Mr. 
Hawk, with a very ugly look in his eyes, re- 
flected to himself : 

“I think it would have been wiser, my 
friend, to pay our debt and so escape JiU. 
The firm of Hawk & Fourmart are long- 
sighted, and it’s not on record that they 
were ever swindled, even by so clever a man 
as you.” 

The meaning of which was that the astute 
Mr. Hawk, by means best known to himself, 
had ascertained that his elegant client had 
lied to him, and was going, without any cere- 
monies of settlement or farewell, to sail for 
Europe on the Mesopotamia. 

That night, amid a storm of wind and 
rain, Jake Owen arrived in Nokota Town, a 
dismal collection of buildings on the banks 
of the Hudson. 

He had no difficulty in finding the house 
he sought, for there was only one hotel in 
the place. Striding into the place, and keep- 


ON THE TRACE. 


213 


ing his passion well under control, he in- 
quired for Mr. H. N. Stoddard. 

The landlord, a lank, cadaverous person, 
smoking a long and damp cigar, instantly 
replied : 

‘‘ I guess you come too late, for he ain’t 
here, and, what’s more, I don’t want to know 
any more of him. He’s left, and he’s a good 
riddance.” 

Thereupon, rendered voluble by liquor, 
Mr. Black enlarged upon Mr. Stoddard’s 
manners and peculiarities in such a way as 
to make it perfectly clear, even to Jake’s 
dazed mind, that this same Stoddard was the 
very man he sought. He had been Mr. 
Black’s confidential manager and adviser 
for some months, and had left that very day, 
leaving behind him a strong odor of what in 
America is called ‘‘smartness” and in Eng- 
land, petty larceny. 

“And where’s he gone?” cried Jake 
Owen, in despair. 

“ I calkilate,” said Mr. Black, “that he’s 
taking ship for Europe, and you bet I hope 
he’ll stay there ! ” 

Jake stood close to the inner door of the 
hotel, the upper part of which door was 
paned with plate glass. No sooner did he 
hear the landlord’s last words than he uttered 


214 


THE WEDDING RING. 


a fierce sliriek, and daslied his clenched fist 
through the glass in a rush to leave the place. 

Cries and curses followed him, but he did 
not turn. Wild and bareheaded, he rushed 
out again into the night. 

Could he only take the villain by the 
throat, and cast him into the gutter, and 
stamp his heel upon his face, and crush that 
pretty barber’s block into pulp — could he 
only make him a thing that men would shun 
and women loathe. 

“ Hark ! what is that ! ” 

The whistle of a steam engine in the dis- 
tance. 

Beside him, within a stone’s throw, stands 
a desolate railway station, not the one at 
which he alighted an hour or two ago. How 
many miles he has walked he does not know, 
nor does he care to inquire. With a bound 
he springs into the booking oifice, obtains a 
ticket for ^N'ew York, and is just in time to 
catch the passing cars. 

The railway people take note of his wild 
appearance, his bloodstained hand and arm, 
his matted hair, his haggard eyes, his clothes 
saturated with the rain, his torn coat, and 
soiled linen. They evidently take him for a 
madman or a murderer, and they telegraph 
to New York accordingly. 


ON THE TRACK. 


215 


The cliief constable and a couple of police 
officers await his arrival ; when he steps out, 
he is arrested. 

In vain he struggles, in vain he demands 
to know the offense with which he is charged. 
The only answer he can get is : 

“Time enough, you will know by and 
by.” 

Fortunately for him, and still more for- 
tunately for the man of whom he is in pur- 
suit, some civic ceremony takes place that 
day at the docks, the police court is not 
open, and he is relegated to the lockup until 
to-morrow. 

It is well that he is mad only on one point. 
Were it otherwise, the humiliation and dis- 
grace to which he is now subjected would 
surely upset the balance of his reason. The 
all-engrossing object for which he lives, how- 
ever, endows him with more than a madman’s 
cunning. He hides his rage, and affects a 
settled calm he does not feel. 

Besides, if his enemy could learn, if he 
should escape him now when he is so near 
him— so near his revenge ! The previous 
night and its attendant horrors have begun 
to tell upon him. He is faint from loss of 
blood. He asks for a doctor and obtains 


one. 


216 


THE WEDDING RING. 


Evidently this gentleman is under the im- 
pression that his patient is mad. While his 
wounds are being dressed, the police-in- 
spector cautions him that anything he says 
may hereafter be used as evidence against 
him, so he remains discreetly silent. 

The doctor takes his leave, promising to 
send a composing draught. 

Nature begins to assert herself, he is abso- 
lutely hungry. 

His purse, of which the inspector has taken 
charge, contains a large amount of green- 
backs, and he is graciously permitted to 
order his dinner and to smoke a pipe. 
While he smokes, he is feasting his eyes 
with the prospect of his enemy beneath his 
feet, his heel, his iron heel always on the 
scoundrel’s sneering face. 

How strange it is with this fever, this 
ravenous thirst for blood on him, he can 
eat, drink, and even sleep — sleep without 
dreaming. 

He had always led a temperate and ab- 
stemious life — so that it is not to be won- 
dered at that he awoke refreshed, strong, 
and vigorous. At first he knows not where 
he is, or how he came there, but at the sight 
of his wounded hand all came back upon 


ON THE TRACK. 


217 


him. Again Ms blood boils, again the devil 
takes possession of him. 

And now a happy idea occurred to him. 
He sent a message to Mr. Hawk, explaining 
his position. The result justified his confi- 
dence, for no sooner was he brought before 
the ‘‘judge,” or sitting magistrate, than he 
was discharged with a caution. 

Mr. Hawk knew how to manage these 
things wonderfully. 

He was free ! And perhaps there was yet 
time ! As he walked out into the street he 
found the lawyer by his side. 

“Your man is now in New York,” said 
Mr. HaWk. “I could take out jiapers to 
prevent him leaving, but I have private 
reasons for not doing so ; he sails this fore- 
noon on the Mesopotamia. You have only 
half an hour to spare if you want to see 
him,” and with an ugly look and a nod Mr. 
Hawk disappeared. 

Jake hesitated a moment, then hailed a 
yellow cab which was passing. 

“ Drive like to the Cunard wharf.” 

Away they go as hard as they can drive. 
As they come down to the wharf they can 
see the steamer still alongside the wharf, a 
crowd of people looking on. 

There would be just time — nearer, yet 


218 


THE WEDDING RING, 


nearer still. Once aboard, that is all he 
asks. 

“Quicker, quicker!” he cries. “Five 
dollars if you’re in time.” 

Thus urged, the man makes a detour 
through a narrow lane to the left, which he 
calculates will enable him to cut off a few 
hundred yards. As he rattles down they 
encounter, full butt, a government van, laden 
with stores, leisurely rolling along from the 
oiiposite direction. 

This is an obstacle impossible to pass. 

- “ you, drive on,” roars Jake, “drive 

over it, over the pavement, over anything.” 

The driver catches the fever of excitement 
and rushes horse and cab upon the pave- 
ment. Even then there is not room. The 
cab and van collide ; with the shock Jake is 
thrown out head foremost. He is not killed ; 
the poor maimed hand saved his head — per- 
chance his life. He takes no heed of that, 
but runs as fast as his feet can carry toward 
the pier. 

As he reaches the mouth of the lane, the 
great liner is moving from the quay side. 

If he can only be in time to take a flying 
leap on deck 1 

Fast as he speeds, the preparations aboard 
speed faster still. A forest of waving hats 


0]^ THE TRACK. 


219 


and handkerchiefs shut out the vessel. He 
buffets his way through the crowd. He 
reaches the edge of the pier to find that he 
is too late. 

Not too late, however, to catch a passing 
glimpse of his dead wife’s paramour, who 
stands aloft upon the hurricane deck, dressed 
as though he had just turned out of a band- 
box. He nods pleasantly and kisses his 
hand to some quondam friend. Jake’s 
curses are drowned by the mighty roar of 
“God’s speed — good-by!” amid which the 
great ship passes out to sea. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE GREAT WATERS. 

OR a brief space Jake Owen was para- 



-J- lyzed witli disappointment. He stood 
haggard and wild upon the quay, watching 
the mighty ship till it disappeared, and to 
the eyes of those who observed him he 
seemed rather like a man mourning some 
loved one who had departed from him, than 
one intent on terrible revenge. 

But his was a nature of strange tenacity. 
Had he laid hands upon his enemy, as he 
had hoped, he might have spared him ; but 
his purpose, from being defeated, grew in 
strength and violence — so that he was more 
than ever bent on bringing the foe to bay. 
Recovering at last from his stupor, he 
rushed to a hotel and consulted a time 
table, from which he discovered to his Joy 
that a vessel sailed that day for Liverpool 
from Hoboken, on the other side of the city. 

Without losing a moment he proceeded 
by car and ferry to Hoboken, and arrived 


220 


THE GREAT WATERS. 


221 


there in time to get on board the vessel, 
which was under weigh. 

The John Macadam was a screw steam - 
vessel of about 3000 tons burden, belonging 
to the famous Macadam line of packets, 
trading between Liverpool and New York. 
She carried both cabin and intermediate pas- 
sengers, as well as a large steerage com- 
plement forward. Her captain was Andrew 
Macpherson, a sturdy weather-beaten Scotch- 
man, and all the officers, as well as the sur- 
geon and a large portion of the crew, be- 
longed to the same nation. On week days 
the vessel was spick, span, and business-like 
from stern to stem, and on Sunday it was 
solemn as a church. When the captain read 
prayers in his broad Annandale accent, it 
was like a Covenant meeting on a Scotch 
hillside. 

Jake Owen, not being wasteful of money, 
had taken a berth in the intermediate, or 
second, cabin. His companions were small 
traders, Jews on the pilgrimage to the 
shrines of Mammon, farmers returning from 
a trip to the new country, and one or two 
rough miners returning home to bring out 
their families. 

Lost in gloom, and deeply determined on 
revenge, Jake kept almost entirely to him- 


222 


THE WEDDING BING, 


self, while the great vessel steamed out 
through the dark waters, leaving the white 
elephant of Coney Island behind her and 
steering due east into the ocean. The dull 
mechanical thunder of the engines, ceasing 
neither night nor day, kept tune to the miser- 
able throbbing of his brain, to the deeper 
beating of his sad, overburdened heart. 

Surely, he thought, no man breathing on 
this planet could be more miserable ; no 
man, however unfortunate, could have had a 
heavier load to bear. His passion for Jess 
had been the master-purpose of his simple 
life. What tore his soul to frenzy, what he 
could not endure or reason calmly upon, was 
the bitter sense of shame at having been so 
cruelly befooled. For the poor fellow was 
proud as Lucifer, and he felt himself, in the 
present situation, an object for all the world’s 
contempt. 

Well, it was all over. Jake had drunk 
his cup of humiliation to the dregs ; and all 
he thirsted for now was a meeting with the 
man who had mixed the poison for his drink- 
ing. Would he find him ? Yes, if he hunted 
the earth from pole lo pole. And then ? 

Revenge, more than almost any other evil 
passion, leaves its signs upon the outer man. 
Few men would have recognized in the gaunt. 


THE GREAT WATERS. 


223 


moody, gray-liaired creature, with that 
cruel, far-off look in his eyes, the tall and 
powerful Jake Owen of a year before. He 
wore a rough seaman’s jacket and a wide- 
awake, he had given up shaving, and alto- 
gether looked more like a low-class ad- 
venturer than an honest son of toil. 

Tlie nights and days passed on. Jake had 
made no male friends, and was generally 
voted a sullen, disagreeable fellow. Yet the 
purifying breath of the sea had not altogether 
failed to do its work. He was calmer now 
and not so restless ; as determined as ever to 
have it out with his enemy, but not so cruel. 
We are creatures of the elements Ave breathe, 
and oxygen, if absorbed in full measure, will 
disintegrate even revenge, as well as solider 
secretions. 

Only one person in the intermediate cabin 
had awakened his interest in the slightest 
measure. This was a young woman of about 
his wife’s age, and not unlike her in fea- 
tures, dressed in widow’s weeds, and accom- 
panied by a little girl about five years old. 
Her look of abstraction and deep unhappi- 
ness had first attracted him. Here, he 
thouglit, is some one almost as miserable as 
myself. 

During the rough weather out, the woman 


224 THE WEHDim Rim. 

was very ill, and as slie was quite helpless 
and alone, Jake paid her some little friendly 
attentions, for which she seemed very grate- 
ful. One evening, when the vessel was 
laboring in a calm but heavy sea, they got 
into conversation, and after some hesitation 
she told him something of her story. 

Her maiden name, she said, was Ellen 
Windover, and she was going home to join 
a married sister at Plymouth. Six years 
before she had married, or so she thought, a 
gentleman who said he was an officer in the 
army, and who had met her when she v/as a 
governess in a wealthy Quaker family, in the 
suburbs of Philadelphia. For about a year, 
and up to the birth of her child, she lived a 
life of comparative happiness, despite the 
fact that her husband was of idle and dis- 
sii^ated habits. At last, however, he left her 
almost without a word, and almost simul- 
taneously she was informed that he had 
another wife living — a discovery which, she 
said, almost broke her heart. 

“The villain!” cried Jake, indignantly. 
He added, with flashing eyes, “ Aye, the 
parsons are right — there must be a hell ! ” 

“ I have forgiven him long ago,” said the 
woman, sadly. “My only grief now is for 
my little girl.” 


THE GREAT WATERS. 


225 


‘‘ And you have never seen him since ? ” 

“ Never, sir ! ” 

“Well, maybe it’s better so. The Lord 
will punish him somehow, make no mistake 
about that ! ” 

The woman lifted her eyes timidly to his 
face, and, with genuine intuition, almost 
guessed his secret. 

“I think,” she said, ^‘Wmtyou too have 
been unfortunate. I only hope your misery 
has not been as great as mine.” 

Flushing to the temples, he forced a 
laugh. 

“No, my lass,” he returned. “ I ha’ had 
my troubles like other men, but a man wi’ 
health can defy the blue devils. It’ s strange, 
though, that in so bonny a world there 
should be so many wicked devils unfit to 
live. Aye, aye, there must be a hell ! There 
are some men — and maybe some women, too 
— that need purging in fire. Your mate was 
one o’ them, and I know another ! It’s him 
I’m follering across the sea.” 

And with a forced laugh and a nod he 
walked away, and looked sullenly across the 
lonely waste of waters. 

Days and nights passed away, till the ves- 
sel was within a few days’ sail of the North 
of Ireland, when suddenly there swept upon 


226 


THE WEDDING RING. 


her a furious southeasterly gale, laden with 
the spume of Antarctic frost and fog. It 
was an anxious and awful time. The pas- 
sengers were kept prisoners below for forty- 
eight hours; but Jake Owen, who knew 
something of sea-craft, offered to make him- 
self useful, and was allowed to keep his 
place on deck and assist the men. It was a 
strange scene, a curious mingling of the pic- 
turesque and the diabolic, and he watched 
it with a sort of savage delight. 

The great iron ship lay helpless as a straw 
in the trough of the sea, and as the mighty 
waves came rolling up with crash of thunder 
and flash of foam, they washed her stern to 
stem, staved in her boats to starboard, 
cleared her decks of every loose fragment, 
and on one occasion, upleaping high as the 
funnel, nearly put out her fires. For twelve 
hours together it was necessary to keep her 
head to the gale, but, despite the power of 
full steam, she swung this way and that way 
at the mercy of the billows, and had she not 
been built of malleable stuff would have 
sijlit to pieces. 

The old captain kept the bridge, trumpet in 
hand, and had the Caledonian hymn-book in 
his pocket. For days together, his sole sus- 
tenance was whisky in moderate doses, quali- 


THE GREAT WATERS. 


227 


fied with natural piety. The hubbub below, 
the thunder above and all around, were 
deafening, but the grim old Scot never lost 
his head. He gave his orders as calmly as 
if he were giving the psalm from the pre- 
centor’s desk, and regarded the vast ocean 
as just so much contemptible matter in dis- 
turbance, which a word from the Almighty 
could stop at once. 

At last the gale ceased, and there came 
a great, peaceful lull. The captain dived 
down into his cabin to snatch a little sleep, 
the seamen crept hither and thither repair- 
ing damages, and the chief officer guided 
the good ship on her way to port. The next 
morning, however, she found herself in a 
fog so dense that it was impossible to see 
the end of her own nose — that is to say, of 
her bowsprit ; and as it was some days since 
the sun had been visible, or it had been 
possible to take any reckoning, the engines 
were slowed to half speed, and she stole 
through the fog leadenly, like a blind 
woman groping her way. 

The fog increased, till all was black as 
Erebus on every side. The air was so bitter 
cold that the masts and shrouds were frozen, 
and the decks crackled like ice underfoot. 
There was not a breath of wind. The sea. 


228 


THE WEDDING BING. 


still rolling with the force of the tempest 
which had subsided, was sinister looking 
and black as ink. 

Jake watched the old captain and his 
officers in frequent consultation, and saw by 
their looks that they were very anxious. 
At last, the engines stopped altogether and 
the ship rolled in the seas like a log, while 
they waited for the fog to clear. Every now 
and then soundings were taken, and entered 
in the ship’s log. 

Thoroughly tired out by the exertions of 
the last few days, Jake went down to his 
berth and slept like a log for many hours. 
He was awakened at last by a hard roaring 
and crashing, and simultaneously he found 
himself nearly swinging out of his berth by 
a lurch of the vessel to leeward. Hurrying 
on his clothes, he ran on deck, and found 
that the fog had partially cleared, and that 
another tempest, from the southeast this 
time, w-as blowing great guns. 

It was just about daybreak, or so it seemed 
by the dim, wan, doubtful light which flick- 
ered now and again in the eye of the howling 
wind. Clinging on the bridge, the captain 
was trying to get a reckoning, and after in- 
finite struggles he partially succeeded. The 
result did not seem reassuring, for the ship. 


THE GREAT WATERS. 


229 


instead of being allowed to continue on her 
way, was put round to face the gale, and the 
engines increased to full sjDeed. 

Such was the fury of the tempest, how- 
ever, that she seemed to make no way what- 
ever, and again and again she fell oif and 
drifted sidelong in the trough of the sea. 
The clouds and vapors, trailing low upon 
the water, swept over her and mingled with 
the upleaping waves. 

All day long, if day it could be called 
where all was a doubtful and .sinister twi- 
light, this state of things continued. When 
night came, the blast had somewhat slack- 
ened its fury, but the violence of the enor- 
mous seas was greater than ever. 

Meantime, the passengers were tossed 
about with mingled feelings of discomfort 
and terror. Again and again, as some more 
than unusually violent sea struck the ship, 
making it quiver through and through till 
• destruction seemed imminent, the cries of 
women and children rose from the cabin. 
Many fell upon their knees, clinging to the 
quivering woodwork, and prayed. 

Among those who seemed least panic- 
stricken was the poor woman named Ellen 
Windover. Pale, but calm, she watched by 
the side of her little girl, who was too pros- 


230 


THE WEDDING RING. 


trate with seasickness to comprehend the 
danger. On the night of which we now 
speak, Jake found her kneeling by the child’s 
side, and wetting its lips with a little milk 
and brandy. 

“ Things be mending, I think,” he said, 
going over to her. “ At any rate the wind 
has fallen. How be the little lass ? ” 

“ Yery ill, sir. She has eaten nothing for 
so long, and was never very strong.” 

‘‘ And you ? I’m glad you keep up your 
courage. Many men aboard might take a 
lesson from you.” 

She looked sadly up into his face. 

“If it were not for my darling, I should 
not mind much what happened.” 

“ Come, don’t say that ! ” 

“Ah, sir, my life is wasted, and I have 
little left to live for. Perhaps it would be 
better for both of us if we sunk down this 
night into the deep sea.” 

As if in very answer to her words, at that 
moment there was a crash like thunder, the 
cabin in which they stood seemed rent and 
riven, she herself was thrown violently for- 
ward on her face, and Jake was shot like a 
bullet righc away to leeward. The after- 
part of the cabin shot up to an angle of fifty 
degrees, forming an inclined plane, at the 
bottom of which struggled a mass of shriek- 


THE GREAT WATERS. 


231 


ing human beings. Another crash ! and an- 
other ! Then, instead of righting herself, 
the ship stood firm, raised up aft and dip- 
ping down forward, while thunder after 
thunder of raging seas roared around her. 

She had struck ! 

With a wild cry of horror and surprise, 
Jake crawled rather than ran up the com- 
panion, and came out upon the deck. What 
a sight met his eyes ! The breakers were 
white as milk around the ship, rising and 
whirling high up into the air, and on every 
side was horrible darkness. The wailing of 
the wind, the loud quivering of the vessel, 
the crash of the seas as they smote upon 
her, the shrieking of the officers and the 
bewildered crew, all stunned the ear and 
filled the sense with horror ! 

The truth soon became apparent. Beaten 
backward before the blast, now fronting the 
seas and now blowing sidelong, she had at 
last drifted on some terrible reef or shore. 
The engines were going at full speed, but 
she was wedged in between the sharp teeth 
of the submerged rocks. Nor was this all. 
The propeller, half broken away and dan- 
gling by the steering chains, was beating like 
a sledge hammer on the ship’s sides, threat- 
ening momently to stave them in ; and as 
Jake stood listening and gazing, an enor- 


232 


THE WEDDING RING. 


mous sea, sweeping over the vessel forward, 
rolled right over the decks, swept into the 
engine room, and put out the fires. 

What next happened he scarcely knew. 
The crew seemed distracted, and the terror- 
stricken passengers, shrieking and strug- 
gling, many in their night-dresses, swarmed 
the deck. Up on the bridge still stood the 
old captain, roaring out his orders and try- 
ing to still the tumult. 

Suddenly a wild shriek went up that she 
was going to pieces. Another enormous sea 
swept her from stem to stern, carrying away 
with it many human beings. At this mo- 
ment Jake Owen saw the young woman 
clinging to the door of the intermediate 
companion, holding her child in her arms. 
He rushed to her assistance. As he did so, 
there was another crash, which stunned him. 
He seemed to be drawn down, down into 
some whirling gulf of darkness, and when 
he recovered consciousness, he was clinging 
to a spar and struggling like a straw in the 
trough of the foaming waters. 

After many hours, he and two others, sea- 
men of the ship, were picked up by a pass- 
ing vessel. All the rest, including the brave 
old captain and Jake’s one friend, had been 
gwept, witli the John Macadam.^ to the bot- 
tom of the sea. 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE PRODIGAL RETURNED. 

T he mutual recognition of husband and 
wife, and Gillian’s swoon following 
upon it, happened so swiftly that the wit- 
nesses of the scene did not at first compre- 
hend what had happened. Yenebles was 
the first to recover his presence of mind. 
He laid Gillian on the sofa, and taking from 
a table near at hand a glass flower-stand, 
dipped his fingers in the water, and threw 
the drops smartly in her face. 

‘‘My darling Gillian!” said O’ Mara, 
bending over her. “My wife! Look up 
and speak to me.” 

“ Your wife 1 ” cried the baronet, pausing 
in his ministrations. Mr. Herbert echoed 
the words. Dora meantime was clinging to 
her mother’s insensible hand, and sobbing 
over her. 

“Yes,” cried O’ Mara, with a face of 
agony, “ my dear wife ! Separated all these 
years and now to meet like this ! Oh, sir, 
if you are a friend of hers — if you have a 
233 


234 


TEE WEDDING RING. 


heart to pity us, send a messenger at once 
for a doctor.’’ 

Yenebles leaned against the wall with a 
stifled moan, like a man stunned by a phys- 
ical blow. 

“His wife ! ” he repeated wonderingly, as 
if the words bore no significance. 

Mr. Herbert, recalling a little of his lost 
presence of mind, bade Dora run for Bar- 
bara. At first the child only clung the faster 
to her mother’s hand, but, after a little per- 
suasion, left the room. 

“This is no place for us, Yenebles,” he 
said, touching the baronet on the arm. 
“ Come ! ” 

He took the poor fellow by the arm, and 
led him, dazed and stui^efied by this sudden 
cruel blow, from the room which, scarcely a 
minute before, he had entered so gayly with 
his affianced wife. O’ Mara looked after 
him with a grim, soundless laugh, which 
changed again to an expression of harassed 
solicitude as Barbara entered the room with 
Dora. 

“Eh, my poor lady!” cried the faithful 
servant. 

She went on her knees beside her, and 
loosed the collar of her, dress and held a 
bottle of smelling salts to her nostrils. 


THE PRODIGAL RETURNED. 


235 


A faint color tinged Gillian’s cheeks and 
leaden lips. She shivered, sighed, and 
opened her eyes, looking round vacantly. 

“Mamma!” cried Dora, “oh, mamma, 
don’t look so 1 Speak to me, mamma 1 ” 

Memory returned at the sound of the 
loved voice, and Gillian cast her arms about 
the child. 

“Ah!” said O’ Mara, in a tone of devout 
gratitude, “ thank God, she returns to life ! 
Thank you, my good woman. Leave us, if 
you please, and take the child with you.” 

“ And who be you?” asked Barbara, won- 
deringly and suspiciously. 

“ I am this lady’s husband,” answered 
O’ Mara. 

“ Leave us, Barbara,” said Gillian, in a 
low voice. “ He speaks the truth. Go, my 
darling.” 

She kissed Dora with icy lips, and, rising, 
led her firmly, though with uncertain steps, 
to the door, and closed it on the beseeching, 
tear-stained little face. As she turned, 
O’ Mara came toward her with a radiant 
smile and hands outstretched. 

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, “don’t 
come near me. The knowledge of your 
presence is enough ! ” 

Her horror of the man, who after years of 


236 THE WEDDING BING. 

cruelty and desertion had returned to dash 
the cup of happiness from her lips, banished 
her weakness. 

“My darling!” cried O’ Mara, in a 
wounded voice. “The shock has turned 
her brain,” he added pityingly, for the be- 
hoof of Barbara, or of any other possible 
listener. 

“What do you want here?” asked Gil- 
lian. “ How did you come ? ” 

“ By the purest accident, my dear Gillian. 
I entered the house and asked permission 
of your venerable friend the Yicar to sketch 
the interior of this charming room. You 
still retain — nay, you have positively im- 
proved upon — the exquisite taste you 
always possessed. While conversing with 
him, my child, our child, Gillian, came into 
the apartment.” 

He x^i’oduced his handkerchief and made 
play with it at this moment. 

“ I learned from her own sweet lips that 
her name was Dora. My memory flew back 
to the time when I had possessed a cherub 
of that name, and even then, yet when I was 
ignorant that the child was mine, nature 
seemed to draw me to her. I half thought 
that I could trace in her little lineaments 
the features I had loved so well.” 


THE PRODIGAL RETURNED. 237 

He flourislied the handkerchief before his 
eyes. 

“It was too good to be true, I thought ; 
such bliss was not for me ; and yet, not only 
in her face, but in her voice, her manner, in 
her happy frankness, the child recalled the 
wife I had never ceased to mourn. The lit- 
tle one, perhaps with a divine instinct that I 
had need of consolation, asked for music. 
This beautiful dwelling, the odor of the 
flowers, the sweet Englishness of the scene, 
the presence of the child, her name, with its 
remains of that happy time we spent to- 
gether, too short, alas, and shortened, I 
must own, by my own intemperate folly, 
which I have bitterly repented, and which, 
I see in your dear face, you have long since 
forgiven, — all these influences flooded a heart 
which, with all its shortcomings, has ever 
been opened to the influences of external 
beauty and poetic feeling. The dear old 
song you used to sing came back to me, 
‘Home, Sweet Home.’ Ah, I thought, as 
my Angers dwelt upon the keys, if this 
peaceful and beautiful dwelling were indeed 
my home, if this angelic child were the Dora 
I had loved and lost, if you were by my side, 
as in the dear dead days ! And the dream 
is true, my Gillian, my bride ! ” 


238 


THE WEDDING RING. 


The strained and flimsy rhetoric, the 
theatrical gesticulations with which he spoke 
this rigmarole, contrasting with the diabolic 
half grin upon his face, was an epitome of 
the man’s character. The words and voice 
were for the possible listeners, his gestures 
expressed his sense of the dramatic value of 
the situation, the smile bespoke a pleasant 
sense of humor. It is not often that a born 
torturer has a more perfect chance of dis- 
playing his instincts than this that fate had 
just put into the hands of Mr. O’ Mara. 

He made a second step toward her. 

At his first advance she had shrunk from 
him in terror, but now she stood firm, draw- 
ing herself to her full height, and meeting 
his eyes with a look which changed his 
mocking regard to one of half-sullen admi- 
ration. 

“ Listen ! ” she said quietly. I know the 
powers you have, the privileges the law gives 
you. I know that all I have is yours, that 
it is just as much in your power to-day to 
strip me of all I possess as it was to rob me 
seven years ago. You are welcome to do so. 
Take all I have — I shall speak no word of 
complaint, make no effort to assert the right 
— I know God recognizes though the law 
denies it. But try to do no more. Lay a 


THE PRODIGAL RETURNED. 239 

hand upon me, advance one step toward me, 
and you will find that I am not unprotected. 
I have but to raise my voice to have you 
thrown out of this house, like the thing and 
cur you are. You will be wise not to pro- 
voke me to such a measure. Go, and leave 
me to myself for awhile.” 

Her calm did more than any raving denun- 
ciation of him could have done. The quiet 
contempt of her words and look left him 
quite untouched, but he recognized the 
force that lay behind them, and gave way, 
marking his retreat in his usual flowery 
glances. 

“ I comprehend, Gillian. You want quiet 
to accustom yourself to these changed cir- 
cumstances. I can understand that my sud- 
den apparition is something of a shock to 
you. I am not here to rob you, as you call 
it. You do me injustice in thinking that the 
prosperity of your circumstances adds one 
iota to the joy I feel in finding you. It is not 
your wealth I want, it is only yourself ; the 
affection you once had for me I would revive. 
Try not to think too harshly of me, Gillian. 
I was not blameless in that past time. I ad- 
mit my faults, my errors. I confess them 
with tears. I leave you for a time ; your 
better nature Avill conquer — I am sure of it. 


240 


THE WEDDING RING. 


You will forget and forgive the errors I de- 
plore, you will hear the call of duty and af- 
fection. AVe shall be reunited. Here, in 
this delicious spot, I shall taste the felicity 
which in my foolish youth — I confess it, Gil- 
lian— I threw aside. God bless you, darling, 
and our dear little one. I will return pres- 
ently to meet, I hope, the reception dear to a 
husband and a father.” 

He left the house, and walked toward the 
village, his face grown hard with lines of 
calculation. 

‘‘I shall have trouble with her,” he said 
to himself. “Gad! how infernally hand- 
some she is. These last seven years have 
improved her prodigiously. She used to be 
a little thin. I arrive apropos. That burly 
baronet was hard hit when I proclaimed my 
identity, but I don’t suppose I shall have 
much trouble with him. I have made one 
friend already in that thick-witted old par- 
son, and to have the clergy on one’s side is 
half the battle with women. But that fellow 
Bream will be the clou of the situation, I’m 
afraid.” 

He reached the Pig and Whistle, where 
Stokes was smoking his pipe in the porch. 
O’ Mara passed him with a slight sideward 
motion of the head, and went upstairs to a 


THE PRODIGAL RETURNED. . 241 

room overlooking the street. A minute later 
Stokes knocked and entered. 

, “ Wein ” he asked eagerly. 

“Your penetration was not at fault,” said 
O’ Mara. “ Mrs. Dartmouth is my wife.” 

“You’ve seen her?” 

“ Yes, and she has seen me.” 

“ What did she say ? ” 

“Nothing you would be the wiser for 
knowing, or that I should care to repeat.” 

“ I can believe that,” said Stokes, “ if you 
treated her as you did the others out 
yonder,” with a jerk of the head in the sup- 
posed direction of America. “ I could find 
it in my heart to wish as I’d never told you 
anything about Mr. Bream and the scrap- 
book.” 

“ Never mind what you could find in your 
heart, my good Stokes. See if you can find 
a bottle of drinkable brandy in your bar.” 

Stokes went and returned with the brandy. 
O’ Mara motioned him to a seat on the other 
side of the table. 

“ Just to get things straight in my mind,” 
he said, “I will tell you the morning’s 
adventures.” 

He told them, plainly and succinctly, as 
he could speak when he chose, and Stokes 
listened. 


242 


THE WEDDING BING, 


‘‘ What do you make of that ? ” he asked, 
when he had finished. 

‘‘ She’s going to bolt,” said Stokes, ‘‘and 
she’ll most likely take the kid with her.” 

“Tliat is my reading of the situation, 
also,” said O’ Mara. “I shall want your 
help, Stokes.” 

“ Then I wish you didn’t,” said the publi- 
can uneasily, nerving himself with a gulp 
of spirit ; “and I’ve a — ^good mind as you 
should do without it.” 

O’ Mara, with his hand on the table and a 
cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth, looked 
at him with a smile of dry, contemptuous 
inquiry. 

“I’m sick o’ being made a tool and cats- 
paw of ; I had enough o’ being your jackal, 
out yonder. Mce jobs as you put me on, 
too ! If I’d ha’ held my jor about that pary- 
graph, as likely as not you’d ha’ gone away 
from here no wiser than you’d come. And 
if I’d ha’ known as Sir George was sweet on 
her. I’d ha’ seen you [Mr. Stokes’s lan- 

guage was remarkably forcible at this point] 
afore I’d ha’ said a word.” 

“You are really shockingly immoral, 
Stokes,” said O’ Mara. 

“Goit, goit!” said Stokes disgustedly. 
“I mean it, though. Mrs. Dartmouth’s a 


THE PRODIGAL RETURNED. 243 

lady. When I was down with the rheumatic, 
a queen couldn’t ha’ been kinder than she 
was to me. Jelly and port wine every day, 
she sent me. The poor man’s Providence — 
that’s the name they give her hereabout. A 
nice providence you’ll be to anybody, won’t 
you ? And Sir George is a good sort, too ; 
he’s going to rebuild this place and give me 
a new lease on the old terms.” 

“Bucolio Philistine ! ” said O’ Mara, ‘‘ why 
can’t he leave the house alone? It’s charm- 
ingly picturesque. I am afraid, Stokes, that 
you didn’t shed many tears over that para- 
graph announcing my untimely decease.” 

“ I shouldn’t cry over better men nor you, 
Mr. O’ Mara.” 

“ Wonderful are the ways of Providence!” 
said O’ Mara. “When that infernal ruffian 
left me on that beastly hill, twenty miles 
from anywhere, I little thought what a good 
turn he was doing me. I wonder why he 
kept the letters ; thouglq for the matter of 
that, I don’t quite know why I had kept 
them myself. I’m glad he did keep them. 
I wasn’t popular in that part of the States, 
and his death, with those letters on his per- 
son, was a godsend to me.” 

“Yes,” said Stokes, “the devil’s mindful 
of his own.” 


244 


THE WEDDING BING. 


‘‘ Thank you,” said O’ Mara sweetly, “and 
now to business. I think Avith you that my 
wife will probably try to run away, and, as 
you euphemistically express it, take the kid 
with her. That must be stopped. It’s my 
intention to stay in this delightful spot, for 
a time at least, and I want no avoidable 
scandal. You must watch the house, and 
have the. pony and trap in readiness. If she 
goes, follow her, and wire me the earliest 
possible information.” 

“Why should I?” asked Stokes, who 
had been drawing pretty freely on the brandy 
bottle. “You’re a disposin’ of one pretty 
face, you are. You leave me alone. I came 
to this place for peace and quietness, and 
r ve had it, till you come to make mischief, 
as you always did. I’m a reformed charac- 
ter, I am. You go and ask about the vil- 
lage if I ain’t a respectable man.” 

“There are one or two other communica- 
tions, my Stokes,” returned O’ Mara, “ where 
your record would not bear sifting so well. 
Do you remember a little affair at Oleoville, 
in ’68, wasn’t it? You are remembered there 
with quite a tender interest. Did you ever 
hear of the Extradition Act ? ” 

“You’re a virtuous character, you are, 
ain’t you now?” said Stokes, “’Pon my 


THE PRODIGAL RETURNED. 


245 


soul, you’re a cool hand to take that sort 
of tone with me. Split on me, eh? We’d 
make a pretty pair side by side in the dark, 
my sweety. You’re as deep in the mud as 
I am in the mire, if it comes to that.” 

‘^Precisely,” replied O’ Mara, calmly. 
‘‘Which helps to make our interest identi- 
cal. My dear Stokes, we are in the same 
boat, and as usual, I am at the helm, so it 
will take what course I choose. The work 
is exhausting, let me speak plainly.” 

“ If you can,” grunted Stokes. 

“I can and will. Our danger and our 
interests are the same. You want to settle 
down as a moral and virtuous character in 
this delightful village. So do I, and we’re 
going to help each other. That’s the situa- 
tion in a nut-shell.” 

“But what am I to get for it?” asked 
Stokes. 

“I shall give you one hundred pounds 
for your original information, and a further 
sum, to be settled between ourselves, for such 
further services as you may perform. And. 
now, waste no more time, go to the Court, 
and keep your eyes open. I’ll go mean- 
while to that dear old ass of a parson, and 
get him to muzzle Bream. Ife^s the only 
real danger, because he’s the only one of the 
crowd with a head on his shoulders.” 


CHAPTER XXL 


COUNSEL. 


ILLIAX had borne herself bravely 



VJ enough in the detested presence of her 
husband, but after O’ Mara had left her she 
sank back, all lax and helpless, into the 
chair from which she had risen, and had to 
summon all her strength to ward off an hys- 
terical attack. 

The wreck of her hopes could not have 
been more appallingly complete ; the past 
hour had seen her fall from the summit of 
happiness to a depth of misery more pro- 
found than she had known even in that 
dreadful time seven years ago in Westmin- 
ster, — the deeper for the awful suddenness 
of the plunge. She could neither think nor 
rest, but sat staring blankly before her, her 
sensation a chaos, and her mind a whirl of 
purposeless trifles. 

Suddenly a step sounded in her ear. She 
sprang up with sudden heart pang, think- 
ing O’ Mara had tracked her to this retreat, 
and stood shrinking with repugnance till a 


COUNSEL. 


247 


shadow crossed her field of vision, and she 
beheld Mr. Bream. 

There was such an atmosphere of strength 
and helpfulness about the man that he came 
to her troubled mind like sunshine and free 
air. She grasped his hand with an inarticu- 
late cry of welcome. 

know,” he said simply; “Sir George 
has told me what has happened. It was he 
who sent me here. Your husband has come 
to light again. He has claimed you.” 

“ Tell me,” she asked ; “ what shall I do ? 
Is there any hel^) for me ? Any hope 1 

“ There are both if you will take them,” 
he answered. “ It is a slow business and an 
unpleasant one ; but you, at least, have noth- 
ing to fear from the fullest publicity. You 
must divorce him.” She shuddered as she 
leaned upon his arm. “I know, I know,” 
he continued with a quick sympathy. “But 
think of Dora, think .of Sir George! AYill 
you shrink from a little pain when it is 
necessary for . the future of your cliild, for 
the happiness of a good fellow who loves 
you ? Let me give you his message, which 
he gave me scarcely an hour ago. ‘ Tell 
her,’ he said, ‘that whatever happens, if 
all is over between us, I absolve her from all 
blame ; she is still the only woman in the 


248 


THE WEDDING RING. 


world to me, and I am lier faithful friend 
till death.’ ” 

“God bless him!” said Gillian, with a 
sudden burst of tears. “ God bless him ! ” 

He let her weep in peace for a few minutes, 
glad that she had found her natural vent for 
the cruel emotions which tortured her. The 
crisis passed, and she was wiping away her 
tears, when a step was heard on the gravel 
outside, and the portly figure of Mr. Her- 
bert darkened the sunlight pouring through 
the door. 

“Pardon me, my dear madam,” he said, 
entering hat in hand, “ I must really speak 
to you.” 

“I know what you have to say, sir,” said 
Gillian. “You come from the man who 
calls himself my husband.” 

“From the man who is your husband, 
yes. Suffer me to say ” 

“I would rather hear nothing from you, 
Mr. Herbert.” 

“Perhaps,” said Bream, “you had better 
leave Mr. Herbert and myself together. If 
he has any message you ought to hear I will 
convey it to you.’’ 

“Thank you,” said Gillian; “you are a 
true friend.” 

She pressed his hand, and with a formal 


COUNSEL. 


249 


bend of her head to the vicar left the room, 
in spite of a remonstrant exclamation from 
him. 

‘‘Pray be seated, sir,” said Bream, offer- 
ing his superior a chair. 

“ I will not be seated, sir,” said Mr. Her- 
bert, with indignant anger. “ As your 
spiritual superior I demand an explanation 
of your conduct.” 

“The explanation is perfectly simple. I 
feel it my duty, as a clergyman and a gentle- 
man, to protect that lady.” 

“ Your first duty, Mr. Bream, is to me.” 

‘•‘Pardon me,” said Bream, with a fine 
mixture of firmness and respect. “I ac- 
knowledge your superiority so far as the 
offices of the parish are concerned ; but I 
have sold you my services, not my con- 
science.” 

“ Does your conscience instruct you to 
side with a woman against her lawful hus- 
band ? ” asked Mr. Herbert hotly. “ I have 
just left that unfortunate gentleman. He 
has — ah — been perfectly frank with me. He 
admits, fully, amply, that his married life 
was not a happy one, and that he chiefiy was 
to blame. He confessed his errors with a 
candor, a conscientiousness, which did him 
infinite credit, and which moved me pro- 


250 


THE WEDDING BING. 


foundly. He is heartbroken, and, being in 
a very delicate state of health, is scarcely 
able to bear the sufferings of his present 
situation. His heart is yearning for recon- 
ciliation ; he begs humbly, yet tenderly, for 
an interview with his wife.’’ 

“You see, sir,” said Bream, stroking his 
chin thoughtfully, “Mrs. Dartmouth was 
taken a little by surprise. The gentleman 
had been so long dead and buried.” 

“ Dead and buried ! The man lives, sir.” 

“ Unfortunately.” 

“ Let us have no more, sir, of this revolt- 
ing cynicism. For my own part I am aston- 
ished to find in a lady for whom I have a 
sincere respect and sympathy, a tone of such 
bitterness toward one whom she had sworn 
to love, honor, and obey. And I am even 
more surprised to find a man of your good 
sense and general right feeling so easily in- 
fluenced by a mere ex parte statement.” 

“ Even if that were so, sir, I might retort 
that all you have to go on is a mere ex parte 
statement of the other side. But it is not so. 
I was intimately acquainted with Mrs. Dart- 
mouth — Mrs. O’ Mara, if you prefer the real 
name — during the most disastrous part of 
her married life.” 

“ Do I understand, Mr. Bream,” asked the 


COUNSEL. 


251 


vicar, with ponderous indignation, “do I 
understand, sir, that you were privy to this 
lady’s concealment of her name ? You knew 
that circumstance, and did not report it to 
me ?” 

“My dear sir,” said Bream, “I am not 
aware that the circumstance of my being a 
clergyman absolves me from my duty as a 
gentleman. Did you expect me to break 
the confidence this unhappy lady reposed in 
me ? ” 

This was so blank an argumentative “No 
thoroughfare,” that Mr. Herbert could only 
blink and cough. 

“ May I ask, sir,” continued Bream, “ if 
you have ever been married ? ” 

“ /, sir ? ” roared Mr. Herbert. 

“Pardon me, I forgot you stand for the 
celibacy of the clergy. But if the vicar has 
not been married, the curate has.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“ So you see, I approach this subject with 
a double advantage. I know something 
about matrimony in the abstract, and about 
this particular marriage we are discussing in 
particular. I have an opinion founded, not, 
as you said just now, on the ex parte state- 
ment of an interested and prejudiced person, 
but on actual knowledge— that this new 


252 THE WEDDING RING. 

acquaintance of yours is a whited sepul- 
cher.” 

“Will you explain ? ” 

“A humbug, if you like it better. His 
debaucheries at the time I knew him were 
open and shameless. They broke the heart 
of this unfortunate lady.” 

“ Judge not,” said Mr. Herbert, “ that ye 
be not judged ! He has repented, and I 
would stake all I possess that his repentance 
is sincere. He is a person of refined tastes, 
and his whole conversation assures me that 
he is deeply religious.” 

“ Ah ! That looks bad.” 

“Sir?” 

“Ho offense. Our religion, Mr. Herbert, 
is often merely a cloak.” 

“ In this case, I am sure that it is not. I 
think I know a little of human nature, and 
this unfortunate man, I believe, is of a most 
affectionate and devoted disposition. When 
he spoke of his child he cried, actually 
cried ! He did the same this morning when 
he first heard her name, before he knew that 
she was his child.” 

“Yes,” said Bream, “ crocodiles cry.” 

“ I myself was deeply affected, sir,” said 
Mr. Herbert; “and I presume that you do 
not call me a crocodile. I promised as a 


COUNSEL. 


253 


Christian, as a clergyman, to plead his cause. 
I feel myself — ah, somewhat compromised. 
I shudder when I think that I was on the 
point of pronouncing a blessing on a biga- 
mous marriage.” 

“ And what do you advise this lady to 
do?” 

“ To do ? ” repeated Mr. Herbert. “ To do 
what any self-resi)ecting woman, any Chris- 
tian, sir, would do under such circumstances 
— to fall upon her knees and humbly to 
thank a merciful Providence that she has 
been spared the commission of an act of 
abomination ; and then to receive with ten- 
derness the gentleman to whom she owes a 
wife’s duty, a wife’s obedience.” 

‘‘I see,” said Bream; “kill the fatted 
calf, and all that sort of thing. My dear 
vicar, it can’t be done ; and it shan’t, if I 
can help it.” 

“ Those whom heaven has joined ” 

“ The other place often puts asunder.” 

“ You are blasphemous 1 ” 

“ Not at all. I am practical and honest 
in the avowal of my ideas. If Mrs. Dart- 
mouth ” 

“Mrs. O’ Mara,” said Mr. Herbert. 

“As you please. The name does not 
greatly matter. If that lady ever again 


254 


THE WEDDING RING. 


avowed allegiance to a cur like that, I, wlio 
am her friend, would give her up forever.” 

“For her child’s sake, Bream ” 

“Even a child cannot mend the broken 
chain of love.” 

“ Put love aside— duty ? ” 

“Is sometimes but another word for im- 
morality.” 

“ Good heavens. Bream ! ” 

“I repeat the word, immorality. For a 
woman, under any protest, to live in con- 
jugal bonds with a man she does not love, 
whom she does not respect, from whom she 
shrinks in actual loathing, is an infamy in 
the eyes of God and man.” 

“ .We are not sent into this woirld. Bream, 
merely to follow our impulses and wishes, 
but to be chastened and made obedient. 
The carnal love which you would make the 

final rule of conduct ” 

“ Is the most divine thing in the world.” 
“ For itself, it is nothing.” 

“It is everything, for it is priceless, and 
cannot be bought or sold ; to the blessing 
from without, it adds the sanction from 
within ; with it, marriage is a pretaste of 
heaven ; without it, veritable hell on earth. 
I speak from knowledge, sir; from bitter 
knowledge of what a loveless woman is.” 


COUNSEL. 


^55 


“We are — ah — losing ourselves in gener- 
alities, Bream,’’ said Mr. Herbert. “Let 
us return to the case in question. Mr. 
O’ Mara has undoubted and undeniable legal 
rights, to put it on the lowest ground. 
These rights it is his intention to assert.” 

“ Mrs. O’ Mara will deny them on her own 
responsibility until legal powers can put her 
beyond his power.” 

“Legal powers!” repeated Mr. Herbert, 
with a horror-stricken aspect. “Do I hear 
you aright, Bream, you as a — ah— a Chris- 
tian priest, counsel divorce ! ” 

“ Most certainly. It is the only common- 
sense solution of the dilemma.” 

“And how,” asked O’ Mara’s voice from 
the door, “ does she propose to procure this 
divorce ? ” 

“ By my evidence, Mr. O’ Mara,” said 
Bream calmly, “and by that of one or two 
other people, who will be easily enough 
found. Her case is perfect. You have fur- 
nished her with everything she needs, — cru- 
elty, unfaithfulness, desertion ! ” 

“Cruelty!” echoed O’ Mara, with an 
abominably acted air of surprise. “ What 
cruelty, in the name of heaven ? ” 

“ She spent a month in St. Thomas’s Hos- 


256 


THE WEDDING RING. 


pital in consequence of your last assault 
upon her.” 

“And where is your witness to thatf^'* 
asked O’Mara. “It is merely an unsup- 
ported statement, to which my denial will 
be a sufficient answer.” 

“That we shall see,” said the curate. 

“This is hard,” said O’Mara. “After 
seven cruel years of separation, I returned 
with a heart overflowing with affection. I 
was happy. My nature was full of sunlight 
and tender anticipations. I know my former 
infirmities — I have freely confessed them to 
Mr. Herbert — but, ah! how I loved that 
woman!” 

“ You proved it, among other things, by 
leaving her for seven years, and making no 
signs all that time.” 

‘ ‘ I left her — yes, we were penniless, and I 
could not bear to see her suffer. I said, ‘ I 
will cross the seas and labor until I become 

rich.’ I went. I returned to find ” He 

passed his hand across his eyes. 

“You have returned, as you say. Rich, 
as you hoped ? ” 

“Alas, no! Fortune has frowned upon 
me, but I still retain my old illusions. I am 
a little older, but still the same.” 

“Yes,” said Bream, with a world of 


COUNSEL. 


257 


meaning in his tone. “ That seems the dif- 
ficulty.” 

“And all you desire,” said Mr. Herbert, 
“ is a perfect reconciliation ? ” 

“Precisely,” said O’ Mara. “I pass my 
dear wife’s unfeeling reception of the news 
that I survived ; I pass over her tendresse for 
another man ; I forget that, with my child’s 
innocent eyes fixed upon her, she was about 
to marry that person, and I say, ‘ All is for- 
gotten and forgiven. For our little angel’s 
sake, let us be united ! ’ ” 

Mr. Herbert blew his nose sonorously. 
“You hear, Bream ? ” 

“Yes,” said Bream, “ I hear.” 

“Then join me as a peacemaker in invok- 
ing on these good people a Christian bless- 
ing.” 

“Thank you, thank you,” cried O’ Mara, 
pressing his hand. “I shall never forget 
your sympathy. Sir,” he continued to 
Bream, “this torture is killing me. I have 

an obscure heart affection, and ” 

“Possibly an aneurism ? ” 

“I — I fear so.” 

“Hardening of the great artery, I diag- 
nosed it long ago ; but with care cases like 
yours last for years. Your heart will never 
kill you, Mr. O’ Mara.” 


258 


TEE WEDDING RING. 


‘‘ My dear sir,” said O’Mara, with a slight 
impatience of manner, all this is apart from 
the point. I demand an interview with my 
wife. I shall* try gentle persuasion to bring 
her back to ideas of wifely duty. If those 
. fail I must try other means, though I shall 
be very reluctant to do so. I ask you, as a 
gentleman, to leave this house.” 

Bream considered for a moment, with his 
eyes on O’ Mara’s face ; then, walking to the 
hall rope, rang. Barbara entered the room. 

“Ask your mistress to step this way, if 
you please.” Barbara went. “ I will leave 
you with your wife, Mr. O’ Mara, perfectly 
confident that since my interview with her 
an hour ago you can do her no harm.” 

Gillian entered, pale but collected. 

“This gentleman,” said Bream, “insists 
on an interview with you. I see no harm in 
you granting the request. You had better 
have help at hand in case he should attempt 
violence, though that is hardly likely.” 

‘ ‘ I am not afraid,” said Gillian. ‘ ‘ Thank 
you, and good evening.” 

She pressed his hand, acknowledging Mr. 
Herbert’s embarrassed bow, and turned to 
her husband. 


CHAPTER XXIL 


FACE TO FACE. 


^HEY stood face to face for a minute in 



-L silence, with the aspect of two duelists 
taking their places, sword in hand. In 
Gillian’s intense face, and in the free and 
strong poise of her figure, O’Mara read a 
more decided courage than that she had 
shown in the earlier intercourses. His face 
wore its habitual expression of tired cyni- 
cism, touched by the admiration he felt, 
despite himself, for her undaunted bearing 
and by his appreciation of her beauty. He 
carried in his hand a bunch of field flowers, 
which he held out to her with a gesture of 
chivalrous deference. 

‘‘You used to like them, Gillian,” he 
said. “ It was one of the many ties between 
us in the dear old days before our dissen- 
sions began. Will you not take them ?” 

“Enough of this,” she answered. “Why 
are yDu here ? ” 

“Why? what a question! Why, be- 
cause ” 


259 


260 


THE WEDDING BING. 


“ Because the report of your death was a 
falsehood invented to destroy me. Because 
you know that I have money, not much, but 
enough to draw you toward me — because 
all else has failed with you, and, in despair, 
you come back to me.’’ 

“Permit me,” said O’ Mara, “to set you 
right on one point. The report of my death 
was none of my doing. The facts are very 
simple. I was robbed by a desperado and 
stripped of all I possessed, even my clothes. 
In my pocket were letters I had received 
from you during our courtship, the only 
possessions I had clung to during all the 
miserable time that I was separated from 
you^ The man was shot with those letters 
in his possession. He was unknown, and it 
was supposed, naturally enough, — for people 
do not, as a rule, trouble to carry old letters 
addressed to other people, — that he was 
Philip O’ Mara. So much for that. I came 
back to you, you say, because you have 
money. An accusation like that is hard to 
fight ; but consider the circumstances. I 
knew nothing of your whereabouts, nothing 
of your accession to fortune. It is purely 
by chance that I am here. Being here, I 
claim you, Gillian. I am your husband 1 I 
claim your obedience ! ” 


FACE TO FACE. 


261 


‘‘You are not my husband ; you are only 
the man who betrayed, degraded, and then 
abandoned me ! ” 

“ You put it harshly, Gillian. I had my 
faults, I admit ; I have deplored them dur- 
ing many a bitter hour of our term of sepa- 
ration with tears. I repent them. For our 
child’s sake ” 

‘‘For our child’s sake?” asked Gillian. 
“ If every fiber of my body and every inch 
of my soul did not loathe you, the thought 
of her would be as fatal to any idea of recon- 
ciliation with you. My life is ended — it 
would matter very little whether I dragged 
out the remnant of my time In solitude or 
again became your drudge and slave. But 
she — I will keep her clear of the pollution 
of your infiuence, God helping me, with my 
life ! When I look into her face, and see in 
it any likeness to you, I say to myself better 
that we both were dead.” 

“ Gillian, you horrify me ; you cannot un- 
derstand what you are saying.” 

“I understand well, and I have resolved 
to say it once for all. Equivocation is use- 
less between us ; as long as we lived together 
your life was infamy, mine was misery and 
shame. You left me ; I thought you were 
dead and I rejoiced— yes, I rejoiced. You 


262 


THE WEBBINQ RING. 


have returned, and the old horror comes 
back upon me ten-fold. Take everything 
that I possess ; let me go and live my own 
life in peace ; and promise me that I shall 
never see your face again.” 

‘‘ I will promise nothing of the kind,” an- 
swered O’ Mara. ‘‘ The sacred tie of wedlock 
is not to be broken so easily. Gillian, my 
darling, cease these reproaches, and be 
reasonable. I am a changed man. My old 
ways are repented of and abandoned ; I 
swear it. You are what you were, only, if 
possible, more beautiful.” The admiration 
that shone in his face was real enough. She 
felt it ; his glance seemed to burn her. ‘ ^ Let 
me, by devoting my life to you, atone for the 
past, Gillian — I love you.” 

“After what I have suffered from you, 
you dare ” 

“ To love you % Who could help it ? ” 

“ Silence ! Not another word. Turn your 

eyes away. If you look at me like that ’ ’ 

“Forgive my admiration. You never 
looked so beautiful ! The same soft eyes 
and thoughtful brow, the same golden hair, 
the same fair form that I have clasped to 
mine.” He came forward with extended 
hands. She made a step back, with so evil 


FACE TO FACE. 


263 


a glitter in her unchanging eyes that he 
paused. 

"‘Don’t prompt me to forget my sex,” 
she said, “as I fear I shall if you attempt to 
lay a hand upon me. I have been free from 
you too long to fall under your power again. 
I remember too well the shame of our life 
together.” 

“I remember only its happy moments. 
Why torture yourself and me by thinking 
of these little indiscretions, long since re- 
pented, which caused an occasional estrange- 
ment. Come, let us be friends. What ! Will 
you not even take my hand ? ” 

“Not even that ! You knew well what 
you were and are ! You taught me long 
ago to know you also. You can deceive the 
world, perhaps, but you can never again 
deceive me. Do not approach me ! Go your 
way, and let me go mine.” 

“May I ask,” said O’ Mara, with a sudden 
coldness of tone—^^ forgive the question — 
if you are quite ingenuous. Is not your 
present conduct the consequence less of my 
misconduct, which I have amply admitted, 
than of the fact that another man has sup- 
planted me in your affections ? ” 

“ Infamous ! Be silent.” 

“No, my dear Gillian, I will not be silent. 


264 THE WEDDING BING. 

You ask too mucli ; you would have the 
charity all on one side. I must remind you 
of your duty, and command you — yes, com- 
mand you — to admit my authority as your 
lawful husband. No, you shall not go ; I 
have not yet done. If you insist on a sepa- 
tion a mensa et tJioro, which I deeply de- 
plore, I shall require at least one solatium^ 
the custody of my little daughter.” 

Gillian staggered as if the words had 
stabbed her. 

“Take my child from me?” she gasped. 
“ Yield her up to you % I would rather see 
her dead.” 

“You compel me to remind you again of 
my legal position. Do you think a fellow 
has no rights % Do you mean that I will 
suffer my darling child to remain under the 
care of one who has taught her to hate and 
despise her father ? ” 

“ I have not done so,” said Gillian. 
“Philip, I swear to you, until to-day I had 
never breathed your name to her. She had 
never heard of your existence.” 

“ That is even more unnatural. Gillian, I 
repeat it, you shock me exceedingly.” 

“ Hypocrite ! ” cried Gillian. 

“ Ah, you do not know me ! ” 

“ To the inmost fiber of your being ! To 


FACE TO FACE. 


265 


the very core of your false and cruel heart ! 
My little child ! Oh, God ! Philip ! ’ ’ she 
cried, with outstretched hands, and with a 
sudden intensity of pleading passion, ‘‘ have 
pity ! Listen to me. I will believe all that 
you say of your repentance. I will teach 
her to pray for you night and morning. 
Have pity ! Take all that I possess, but 
leave me my child.” 

“You ask too much,” he said again. 
“ The bribe you offer is a greater insult than 
any you have yet put upo;i me. It is not 
for the sake of money that I shall desert my 
child, or give up my rights as a husband. 
I cannot compel you to believe in the sin- 
cerity of my repentance, the ardor of my 
affection, but' I can at least take care that 
my child is not schooled to detest and abhor 
her father, or permitted to grow up in igno- 
rance of his mere existence.” 

“Will nothing move you ? ” cried Gillian. 
The threat about the child had frightened 
her horribly. She had, if such a thing were 
possible, exaggerated O’ Mara’s cunning and 
cruelty, and her thought was that before she 
could procure the legal protection she 
needed, he would steal Dora from her side. 

“ Nothing ! ” he answered ; “ I stand here 
on my rights. You are my wife, Dora is 


266 


THR WEDDING BING. 


my cliild. This house is mine, nothing but 
process of law can eject me. I see by the 
unaltered stubbornness of your demeanor 
that soft measures are of no avail. I might 
as well have acted decisively this morning as 
now.” He took a seat, crossed his legs 
easily, and took a case from his pocket. 
‘‘ You don’t object to a cigar, if I remember 
rightly. Oh, by the by, you had better send 
up to the ‘ Pig and Whistle’ for my port- 
manteau. You are nearer the bell than I, 
might I trouble you to ring.” 

Showing consciousness in every line of his 
face and curve of his body of Gillian’s 
horrified gaze upon him, he kept his eyes 
fixed on the flame of the match at which he 
lit his cigar. His voice was purely common- 
place, and having thrown aside the match he 
stretched out an indolent hand for a book on 
the table beside him. 

A knock came to the door, which Gillian 
scarcely heard, and left unanswered. Bar- 
bara entered the room with a card upon a 
salver. Her mistress took it mechanically. 
For a second or two the name it bore meant 
nothing to her, but at a second reading she 
cried to Barbara, with a stifled pant in her 
voice : 

“Yes, show him in.” 


FACE TO FACE. 


267 


She stood erect again, and quivering as if 
some galvanic inllnence flashed from the 
scrap of pasteboard held between her Angers. 
Thirty seconds later, Sir George Venebles 
entered the room. He stopped at sight of 
O’ Mara, who looked uj) at him from the 
page of the book with an abominably acted 
cool stare of non-recognition. 

“A friend of yours, my dear Gillian? 
Pray present me.” 

“I am Sir George Yenebles,” said the 
baronet ; ‘ ‘ I desire to speak a few words 
with Mrs. Dartmouth.” 

“ There is no lady of that name here,” reT 
turned O’ Mara. “Do you know her ad- 
dress, Gillian ? Perhaps you can direct this 
gentleman to And the person he requires.” 

“ Gillian ! ” began Yenebles. 

“ Pardon me,” said O’ Mara. . “ That lady 
is my wife. May I ask what right you have 
to address her by her Christian name ? ” he 
continued, dropping his bantering tone, and 
speaking angrily. ‘ ‘ Don’ t you think, under 
the circumstances, that your visit is mis- 
placed and impertinent, and that you had 
better go ? I am not of a jealous tempera- 
ment, but I decidedly object to the presence 
here of one who proposed taking my place 
and usurping my privileges. To put it on 
the lowest ground, it is hardly becoming.” 


268 


TEE WEDDING RING. 


“I came here ” began Sir George 

again. 

‘‘As cavalier in ordinary. Just so; but 
the proper guardian of a wife is her hus- 
band.’’ 

“ You cur ! ” cried Sir George, making a . 
step toward him. “Utter another word of 
insult and ” 

“Oh, pray, strike me! You are power- 
fully built, I am physically delicate ; no 
doubt you would be the stronger. But 
morally and legally, young man, I should 
be a giant, you a pigmy.” 

“ My object in coming here to-night,” said 
Yenebles, restraining his passion with a 
strong effort, “was to offer that lady my 
protection against a scoundrel.” 

“Indeed! Highly chivalric.” 

“I know what she has suffered. I know 
the misery you have brought upon her ; and 
now, if she said the word, I would avenge 
her wrongs upon your miserable body.” 

“ George, be silent ; let me speak.” 

“Wait, my dear Gillian,” said O’ Mara, 

“ I shall have the greatest pleasure in listen- 
ing to any remarks you may have to make 
when we are quit of the presence of this 
intruder. Sir, I am master here, as you will 
find if you intend to deny my authority. 


FACE TO FACE. 


269 


That lady is my wife. This is my house. 
Your presence here is an outrage. Be good 
enough to make yourself scarce.” 

“I shall not stir a step while you remain.” 

“Reflect a minute,” said O’Mara, “and 
you will see that you are compromising this 
lady, whom you declare it your object to 
serve. If I were as hot-headed as yourself, 
there would be a deuce of a scandal.” 

Sir George turned to Gillian. 

“Is it your wish that I should go?” he 
asked. 

“Yes,” she said. “It is my wish you 
should go, and take that man with you.” 

“Then, after you, sir,” said Yenebles, 
with a flash of genuine triumph, pointing to 
the door. 

‘ ‘ Pardon me ! Deeply sorry, of course, 
to interfere with your arrangements, but I 
shall stay here to-night, en famille. Let me 
remind you, my dear Gillian, that your con- 
duct would suggest to an unprejudiced mind 
that while I was merely your husband you 
regarded that gentleman as your lover.” 

“ What?” cried Yenebles, “you dare ” 

“Do not heed his insults,” said Gillian. 
“He merely wishes to provoke you to an 
outrage. Go — but before you go, save me 
from his presence.” 


270 


THE WEDDING RING. 


‘‘You hear,” said Sir George. “Come, 
sir!” 

“Absurd !” said O’ Mara, “ I remain.” 

With one strong clutch on his collar the 
baronet pulled him from his seat. For a 
moment O’Mara made a show of feigning 
resistance, but a rat in the fangs of a terrier 
was not more helpless. 

“I yield to jowy force majeuref he said, 
“but I protest against this violation of my 
rights.” 

“You can protest just as well outside,” 
said Venebles, and with a gesture of impo- 
tent rage O’Mara retreated. Sir George 
shot a rapid whisper to Gillian as he passed 
her : 

“At the bottom of the spinney, at nine ; if 
you ever loved me, be there.” 

Before she could answer yes or no, he had 
followed O’Mara. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


FLIGHT. 

S CARCELY had Sir George disappeared 
when Gillian became conscious of a loud 
contention of voices in the garden. For a 
moment she fancied that O’ Mara and the 
baronet must have broken into open quarrel, 
and listened with a sick apprehension of new 
disaster, but a moment later she recognized 
the voice of Barbara in the debate, mingled 
with another which seemed strange to her. 
She moved to the window, and there saw her 
faithful servant engaged in a struggle with 
her brother-in-law, Jake Owen. Gillian 
had forgotten the man’s existence, and re- 
called it by an effort. 

‘‘ I tell ee,” said Jake, who was white and 
feeble, but strung to an energy not his own 
by some fearful excitement, “ I tell ee, I 
heard him. Shouldn’t I know his voice? 
Theer ain’t two like it in the world. Let me 
go, lass ; let me go. He’s close about. He 
can’t ha’ got far away by this time.” 

271 


272 


THE WEDDING RING, 


Barbara clung to liim and held Mm back. 

“Jake, Jake! take a thought, lad, and 
remember where ye be. Is it likely as he’d 
be here ? Bo act reasonable, now, and don’t 
ee go there, frightening the soul out o’ my 
poor lady, as has enough to bear a’ ready.” 

“I heard him, I tell ee,” repeated Jake, 
“I heard him.” His eyes grew fixed, and 
the ghastly pallor of his face deepened. 
“Sh’,” he said, setting Barbara aside with 
a strong gesture. “He’s there. I’ve got 
him. Quiet, my lass.” 

Gillian, fixed to her place behind the cur- 
tains with horror, saw him start with wind- 
ing steps and crouching body, a few paces 
forward, and then, with a sudden spring, 
strike hurriedly at the empty air with a for- 
midable-looking knife. 

“ him 1 ” he said, “ he’s gone again ! 

What are ye doing with him?” he said 
fiercely to Barbara. “ You’re hiding him 
from me. You, Jess’s sister! ye’re false, 
my lass.” 

“Come back, Jake, come back to your 
bed,” pleaded Barbara ; “ ye’re not fit to be 
about, my poor lad.” 

“But I saw him,” persisted Jake, though 
with an accent on the word, which showed 
that a flash of complete sanity had made him 


FLIGHT. 


273 


doubt tlie countenance of the vision. ‘‘I 
saw Mm right there.” 

“But ye saw him this morning,” said 
Barbara; “ and Jess, too.”. 

“Ay!” said Jake, “lying dead and 
white at his feet. That was only a dream, 
lass, but this time ” 

“It’s only a dream, too, Jake. Come 
back to your bed, my poor lad.” 

Jake looked about him with a pathetically 
puzzled face, and, Barbara’s gentle pressure 
on his arm, allowed her to lead him away. 

Time had slipped by unnoticed on this 
day of strange events, and it was with a 
sort of dull surprise that Gillian saw the 
finger of the clock upon the mantle-shelf 
pointing to within five minutes of the hour 
of Sir George’s rendezvous at the spinney. 
She began to wonder whether it would be 
right or wise to go, and so debating, went. 
Her mind was a chaos, with no definite sen- 
sation save one of vague, hopeless misery. 

She passed through the dusk of the open 
spaces of garden and farm, faintly silvered 
with strengthening moonlight, to the strip 
of dense shadow cast by the spinney. There 
she paused in a sharp wrestle with tears, 
which would force their way through her 
eyelids, and became conscious of a measured 
stejj, pacing slowly up and down the high- 


274 


THE WEDDING RING. 


road beyond the trees. He was there al- 
ready, waiting for her. The brave heart 
which had borne its own load of sorrow so 
well went out to his desolation. She con- 
quered her weakness, and pressed forward. 
At the first crackle of her step upon the 
dried leaves with which the spinney was 
strewn the steady beat on the road stopped, 
and as her dark figure glided out into the 
moonlight, she heard her lover’s breath 
escape him in a sob of relief. 

“Thank God! I feared you might not 
come.” 

“ It would perhaps have been better if I 
had not,” she answered. 

“ Don’t say that,” he jfieaded. “ I can’t 
tell you, Gillian, how I have longed to see 
you since — since this morning. My whole 
life, for the last six years, has been spent in 
longing for you, to see your face, to hear 
your voice, but I never knew how dear you 
were to me till to-day. Ah, my darling ! 
To have held you in my arms, to have heard 
from your own lips that you love me, and 
then to lose you I I could bear that, per- 
haps ; at least I could bear it better than 
to know that I lose you to that brute-beast 
who has blackened all your innocent life. 
Tell me, Gillian, let me hear you say it, you 


FLIGHT. 


275 


will never be reconciled to him — never go 
back to him ! ’ ’ 

“ Never,” she said, ‘‘ never ! You may be 
sure of that, at least. No,” she cried sud- 
denly, “ stay as you are.” He had made a 
sudden motion to swing himself up the bank 
which divided the road from the spinney. 
‘‘This is good-by, George, between us. I 
was wrong to come here at all. Do not make 
me more sorry than I am that I have been so 
weak.” 

“ Good-by ! ” he echoed, “ why good-by ? 
You have only to fling this wretch out of 
your path to be free.” 

“Will that be so easily done?” she 
asked. 

“ There is no court in the world,” he said,* 
‘ ‘ that would not give you your liberty after 
what you have condoned at this man’s 
hands.” 

“Think,” she answered, “think what I 
must endure to procure that liberty. You 
do not know. I have not told you. one tithe 
of the shame, the horror, of my life with 
that man. What he was, no one can know 
but myself^ The proof of his infamy would 
be my shame as well as his before the world. 
George, it would be horrible. I would 
rather die than face that ordeal.” 


2V6 


THE WEDDING RING. 


“But wliat will you do 1 ” 

“I do not know. I must have time to 
think. My brain and heart seem numb — 
dead.’’ 

“ Gillian, you must face it for my sake. 
There can be no disgrace to you. How can 
there be ? What have you done at which 
people could point ? All the shame would 
be his. I know how you must shrink from it. 
You could not be the woman you are if you 
could welcome such a prospect, or be indiffer- 
ent to it ; but think of your liberty — think 
of Dora’s future — think of me. A little 
courage, darling, for my sake.” 

“ For your sake ? ” she answered. “ Ah, 
George, it is of you I think more than of 
myself. Could you — proud as you are, with 
your name and position — marry a woman 
whose fame had been dragged through the 
mud of the public courts ? ” 

“You doubt me, Gillian ? You doubt my 
love % ” 

“No,” she answered; “ I do not doubt 
your love. It is because I believe in it and 
in you that I shrink from taking the means 
Avhich could make it possible for us to come 
together. I know you would redeem your 
promise. You might be happy for a time, 
but it would be happiness dearly bought.” 


FLIGHT. 


211 


would give my life for you,” he pro- 
tested. 

“ Your life, yes. I think you would,” she 
answered simply, looking sadly at the exal- 
tation on his moonlit face. ‘‘But your 
friends, your position in society % ” 

“Friends? Position in society?” he re- 
peated, scornfully. “ What are friends, 
what is position in society ? Why, what 
danger is there of my losing them, even if I 
cared for a second whether I lost them or 
not? Listen, Gillian.” He sprang up be- 
side her, with one arm embracing the fence, 
and caught her fingers in his disengaged 
hand. “We have our happiness in our 
own power. If we act like a brave man and 
a brave woman, who truly love each other 
and have real confidence in each other’s af- 
fection, this man cannot keep us apart. 
Why should we wait for the law to set you 
free?” 

“George!” cried Gillian, starting back 
and disengaging her hand. 

‘ ‘What ? ” he said, ‘ ‘ look the thing fairly in 
the face, as if it were another woman’s case. 
Would you blame another woman in your 
position for acting so, knowing the circum- 
stances as fully as you do ? While you re- 
main here you are constantly open to this 
man’s attacks and insults, you are complete- 


278 


THE WEDDING RING. 


ly defenseless before liim. Even when you 
made your appeal for justice in the court, 
see what you have to face — the insults of a 
licensed cad in a wig and gown, the publicity 
of the press, and, God knows, there are 
always accidents to be dreaded, and justice 
is never certain ; perhaps when you have con- 
doned all this, you will still find yourself 
tied to this villain more hopelessly than 
now. Why should you stand such a risk ? ’’ 
‘‘ And my child, George ? ” 

“Your child? Why, she would come 
with us, of course, and learn to love me as a 
father, as she does already, dearest.” 

“And w^hen she learned 'the story, and 
grew old enough to understand ? ” 

“ Why should she ever know the story ? ” 
“If she never did, would that alter the 
fact that I should be unworthy of her affec- 
tion ? Ah, George, you do not love me as I 
dreamed, if you would degrade me in my 
eyes and your own. Ah ! ” she continued, 
seeing him about to protest, “ I know what 
you would say. I know you would be sin- 
cere in saying it, but the time would come 
when you too would despise me. Evil can- 
not cure evil. Suffering can never be cured 
by sin.” * 

“The sin would not be ours,” said Ven^ 


FLIGHT, 


279 


ebles, ‘‘it would be the world’s, which has 
brought this misery upon you. If you loved 
me, Gillian, you would not hesitate.” 

“ I love you,” said Gillian, “and you 
know it. It is because I love you that I am 
jealous of your good fame and my own. 
Spare me, George. Let me feel that one 
man at least is pure — that one man lives who 
is incapable of a thought, a wish, which 
would reflect dishonor on his own nature, 
and prove his scorn for mine.” 

He hung his head, and a great sob forced 
its way from his throat. 

“At least,” he said, when he could trust 
his voice again, “ you will try to recover 
your . liberty ? ” 

“I must think,” she said. “It has all 
been so sudden, so terrible. Of one thing 
you may be certain — all is over between him 
and me. Even if his hypocritical repentance 
were real, it could not wipe out the past.” 

“Remember this,” said Yenebles, “that, 
whatever happens, I am your servant, your 
slave, till death. You have one friend, 
Gillian, who will see justice done to you. 
You are tired and ill, my darling. Go home 
and try to sleep. I shall bring you to reason 
at last, I know. Good-night.” 

He caught the hand she offered him, and 


280 


THE WEDDING RING. 


kissed it passionately. Then he walked 
away, but Gillian heard his steps stop before 
she was beyond the line of shadow cast by 
the trees. 

The house was silent when she returned 
to it and quite dark, save for a gleam of 
light through the shutters of the kitchen 
where Barbara sat. In the cool night air 
Gillian walked up and down the lawn, con- 
sidering the event of the past hour. Sir 
George’s parting phrase, “ I shall bring you 
to reason at last,” rang in her ears, with 
a gathering clearness and terror in its 
meaning. 

God help me ! ” she cried to herself ; “ I 
am walking among tires.” 

The man she loved grew to seem a more 
pressing danger than the man she hated. 
She had schooled herself to speak calmly 
and wisely during this interview, but she 
dreaded the renewal of his pleadings, clearly 
foreshadowed in the phrase which haunted 
her mind. 

‘ ‘ I am not strong enough to bear it. God 
knows what I might be tempted to do in this 
strait.” She stood for a moment, gazing in- 
tently at the ground, her fingers knotted to- 
gether. “Yes,” she said slowly, “ it is the 
only way.” 


FLIGHT. 


281 


She hurried within doors, to her bed- 
room, where she rang the bell which sum- 
moned Barbara. That good creature found 
her packing a portmanteau, and stood aston- 
ished. 

“ Wake Miss Dora, please, Barby, and 
dress her.” 

The woman stared, and then, with a 
sudden understanding of the situation, 
began to blubber. 

“You are a good, faithful creature,” said 
Gillian, kissing her ; “I think you are my 
friend.” 

“ God knows I be, my lady.” 

“I will trust you,” said Gillian, “I am 
going away, you can guess why. When I 
have a shelter, you shall know where I am. 
I shall be away some time — how long I don’t 
know yet. You will stay here, and look 
after the place, and let me have news of 
what happens. And now be quick, there is 
no time to lose.” 

She finished her packing, putting a few 
immediate necessities for Dora and herself 
in a portable handbag, and leaving the 
heavier packages to be forwarded later. She 
took a little bundle of bank notes from her 
escritoire., and wrote a short note. “I am 
going away. I leave you master of this 


282 


THE WEDDING RING. 


house, of all that is mine. I admit your 
right to make me a beggar — you shall never 
make me do more. 1 will rather beg my 
bread than defend myself against you.” 

‘‘ Give that to Mr. O’Mara when he comes 
to-morrow,” she said to Barbara, as she ap- 
peared with the child. “My darling, you 
are not afraid to go with me ? ” 

“No, mamma,” answered the child, 
bravely, though with a quivering lip. 

“We must go away to-night. If we stop 
here, they will take you from me.” The 
child nestled closer to her, looking up in 
her face with frightened eyes. “ You Avill 
be good — you will not cry ? My darling, it 
is for mamma’s sake. God bless you, Bar- 
bara, you shall hear from me soon. Send 
on these things when I send for them ; I 
shall write to you through Mr. Bream.” 

Again she kissed the honest, homely 
cheek, wet with tears ; then, with Dora 
clinging to her skirts, she hurried down- 
stairs and from the house. Scarcely fifty 
yards from the gate she beheld a dark object 
barring the road, which on closer inspec- 
tion resolved itself into a dogcart and a 
horse. A smaller black object detached 
itself from it, and became perceptible in the 
moonlight as Stokes. 


FLIGHT. 


283 


‘‘Evening, mum,’’ said that worthy, with 
a touch of his rabbit-skin cap. “Evening, 
little lady.” 

“Good evening,” said Gillian, quietly. 
“You are late on the road, Mr. Stokes.” 

“ Fve been over to Eadford, mum. The 
horse had got a stone in his shoe, and I 
pulled up to pick it out.” 

“ Could you take me over to Eadford ?” 
asked Gillian ;“ I have important business 
in London, and must catch an early train. 
•I will pay you well for your trouble.” 

“Trouble’s a pleasure mum,” said Stokes, 
gallantly. “As to payment, I hope you 
won’t talk o’ that. I’m proud to oblige ye, 
mum. The little horse is as fresh as paint, 
he’ll take you there inside of an hour and a 
half. 

He helped Gillian to mount, and lifted in 
Dora after her. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


THE LAST MEETING. 

I T was yet early on the following morning 
when O’ Mara, placidly asleep in his bed 
at the “ Pig and Whistle,” was aroused by 
a loud knocking at his door. 

‘‘ Who’s there ? ” he asked, sitting up in 
bed. 

“It’s me,” responded the voice of his 
landlord, “I’ve got news for you.” 

“ Wait a minute,” responded O’ Mara, and 
hastily donning one or two articles of cloth- 
ing, admitted him. 

“I’ve got her!” said Stokes, triumph- 
antly. “ It ought to be worth another hun- 
dred, gov’ nor.” 

“ What is all this ?” asked his patron. 
“I’ve got the kid,” replied Stokes ; “ your 
wife bolted last night, as you thought she 
would, and I drove her into Radford. She 
went to the George Hotel there, and I heard 
her tell the waiter to wake her up in time 
for the first train as left the station. So I 


284 


THE LAST MEETim. 


285 


waited on, followed her to the station, and 
heard her ask for tickets to Cambridge. 
She was lookin’ precious ill and worried, as 
if she’d been crying all night. She went out 
on the platform, and, just as the train was 
signaled, blow me if she didn’t faint bang 
off. She’d ha’ fell on to the line if a chap 
hadn’t ha’ caught her in his arms. That 
give me my chance, and I took it sharp, you 
bet. ‘ I know the lady,’ I says, ‘ I drove her 
in here from Crouchford last night. She’s a- 
stopping at the George.’ I says, ‘ Leave her 
to me, it’s all right.’ The station-master 
knows me, and I got charge of her and the 
kid easy enough. I takes ’em back to the 
George — at least I takes Tier back, leavin’ the 
little one in the trap outside. The chamber- 
maid took her up-stairs to her room — she 
was in a dead faint all the while — and I lays 
into the horse, and comes along here with 
the little ’un.” 

“ And where is she % ” asked O’ Mara. 

‘‘Locked in the parlor down-stairs,” said 
Stokes. “ What are you going to do % The 
mother’ll be back here in no time. She’ll 
guess, if nobody tells her, what’s gone with 
the kid.” 

“Your penetration does you credit, Mr. 
Stokes,” said O’Mara. “You have man- 


286 


THE WEDDING BING. 


aged tilings very cleverly. Thou art the 
best o’ cut-throats.” 

‘‘There’s another thing, too,” continued 
the publican, “Sir George was with her 
again last night.” 

• “ What, after I got home ? ” 

“ Yes. They were together at the bottom 
of the spinney for a good hour and more.” 

‘ ‘ Did you hear anything of their conver- 
sation ?” 

“No, I daren’t go close enough. But the 
moonlight was bright and I see him kiss her 
hand.” 

“Ah!” said O’ Mara, “I think, if it 
should be necessary, that you might remem- 
ber a little of their talk later on, my good 
Stokes.” 

“No,” said Stokes, with a resolute shake 
of the head, “ no, no perjury ! ” 

“Perjury!” echoed O’ Mara, “ my dear 
Stokes. Go and freshen up your faculties 
with a little sleep. Or— stay. Wait till I 
am dressed, and you shall drive Miss Dora 
and myself down to Crouchford Court. An 
invaluable fellow, that,” he continued, when 
Stokes had withdrawn, “his scruples are 
amusing — or would be if they were less 
costly to his employer. Conscience — not 
too much of it, but just enough to put up a 


THE LAST MEETING. 


28'7 


man’ s prices— is a splendid thing. He seems 
to have managed this affair rather cleverly. 
He has some elementary knowledge of 
women, too. He’s right about Gillian, she’ll 
double back to the Court, when she finds 
the child is gone, like a hare to her form. 
I shall have trouble with her, and with that 
rustic booby of a cavalier sermente^ too. I 
wonder if the brute would really have pro- 
ceeded to violence if I had resisted him last 
night. By to-day I should be free from 
that kind of annoyance. My lady will 
alter her tune when she gets a letter from a 
London solicitor, stating my claim and my 
intention to prosecute it to the utmost. 
She’s devilish handsome and well pre- 
served,” he went on, as he stropped his 
razor ; ‘‘ she piques me with her confounded 
airs. It would be something of a triumph 
to win or force her back, and the discom- 
fiture of her admirer, the baronet, would be 
a rich treat. It will be a hard fight, and 
she may go to court with a divorce suit, 
which would be awkward, — confoundedly 
awkward, — especially if she- won. B ut could 
she win? No mortal creature ever saw me 
lay a hand upon her, save in the way of 
kindness. She can’t prove that it was I 
who took that ten pounds. The desertion 


288 


THE WEDDING BING. 


looks Ugly, but I don’t think desertion alone 
is good enough for a divorce, and even then 
I have my defense — her assumed name and 
change of domicile. I have done well to 
strike first — it’s always the safe rule with 
women. A threatened suit for restitution 
of conjugal rights may turn out to be a very 
ace of trumps, and frighten her into submis- 
sion. It’s a stake worth playing for, and 
my hand is not a bad one, all things consid- 
ered. Fancy that ass of a baronet going 
back last night, and talking to her from 
the public road ! I can fancy what a vir- 
tuous British jury would make of that and 
her flight an hour later. That’s a trump 
card, and must not be forgotten.” 

Communing thus with himself, he finished 
his toilet, and descended to the room in 
which Stokes had hastened little Dora. The 
child was sitting silent, and trembling with 
terror. It was not his cue to set her against 
him, and he opened the conversation with 
an engaging smile. 

“ Well, my darling, are you ready to go 
home with papa ? ” 

‘‘ You are not my papa ! ” said Dora. 

‘‘ Oh, but I am, indeed ! Won’t you give 
me a kiss?” 


THE LAST MEETING. 


289 


“No,’’ said Dora, “ I won’t. I don’t like 
you.” 

“You will like me better, my darling, 
when you know me better,” said O’ Mara. 
“I am a really charming person, I assure 
you. Come, dry your eyes and don’t cry 
any more. I am not going to hurt you.” 

“ I want mamma,” said Dora. 

“We shall find her at home,” said O’ Mara. 
“ Come along, the trap is ready.” 

The child followed him, submissive but 
obviously distrustful, and Stokes drove them 
to within a hundred yards of the gate of 
Crouchford Court. There he stopped. 

“ Go on, Mr. Stokes, if you please,” said 
O’ Mara. 

“ Oh, no ! ” said Stokes, with a dry air and 
a lengthened shake of the head, “I’ve had 
as much of Miss Barbara Leigh as I want. 
She’s a tartar, that’s what she is ; I don’t 
want her to see me along o’ you.” 

O’ Mara accordingly descended, and hold- 
ing Dora by the hand, walked to the house 
and rang. He was admitted by Barbara, 
who gave an inexpressible snort of anger 
and contempt at his appearance and handed 
him Gillian’s letter. Dora made amotion to 
run to her old nurse, but O’Mara checked it. 

“ Go and sit in that chair,” he said, point- 


290 


THE WEDDING BING. 


ing to one in the corner behind him. There 
was so strong a hint of possible disagreeable 
consequences in his manner that the child 
obeyed. He tore open the envelope, and 
read the missive it contained. 

‘‘ You’ve got your will at last,” said Bar- 
bara, her hatred of the usurper conquering 
her prudent feeling that it would be best to 
hide it. “ You’ve driven my mistress away, 
poor dear. Ah ! if she only had my 
sperrit ” 

“ Yes? ” O’ Mara smilingly prompted her. 

“She’d have stayed and faced ye, ye 
smooth-tongued, smiling serpent.” 

“You are really an extremely disagree- 
able person,” said O’ Mara. 

“ Aye, so you’ll find me.” 

“We had better come to an understand- 
ing at once,” said O’Mara. “I am master 
here ; you are doubtless a hard-working and 
deserving person, but your appearance — to 
say nothing of your manners, which are 
deplorably vulgar— dissatisfies me. I like 
to have well-favored people about me.” 

“Ye don’t get me out o’ this house,” 
said Barbara, folding her arms, “without 
force, and I wouldn’t be in your shoes if you 
tried tliat dodge. I don’t go till I’m told to 
by my lady. If harm comes to her or to . 


THE LAST meeting. 


291 


that sweet lamb tliere, you’ll find me 
harder to reckon with than many a strong 
man.” 

“Oblige me by leaving the house,” said 
O’ Mara, advancing toward her. 

“If I go,” said Barbara; “I take Miss 
Dora with me. Don’t ee be af eared, my 
darling, no harm’ll happen to ee while Dar- 
by’s here to look after ye. Come to Bar- 
by!” 

“Stay where you are,” said O’ Mara to 
the child. “Do you dare,” he continued, 
“ to interfere between me and my child ? ” 

“Aye, do I?” said the honest virago, 
“ and what’s more, I don’t believe she’s any 
daughter o’ yourn — she’s o’er good and o’er 
pretty.” 

“ Take care, woman,” cried O’ Mara, stung 
through his armor of cynicism by the ser- 
vant’s outspoken contempt. 

“ Woman, or no woman, I’m match for 
you, master. Don’t ’ee lay a finger on me ! 
Raise your hand if ye dare, and I’ll write 
my ten commandments on your ugly face ! 
Thank God, there’s my lady.” 

Gillian tottered into the room, overcome 
with fatigue and fear. Her eyes fell upon 
Dora, who ran forward with a glad cry and 
fell into her arms. 


292 


THE WEDDING RING. 


“I’m glad you’re here, my lady,” said 
Barbara. 

“Yes,” said Gillian, who had grown quite 
calm again upon a sudden. “ I am here, I 
have come to take back what this man tried 
to steal from me, like the coward he is.” 

“I am glad to see you,” said O’ Mara, 
expected you.” 

“You had reason to. You know that I 
would have risen from my dying bed to save 
my child from you ! ” 

“Pardon me,” said O’ Mara, quietly, 
“also my child. Let me trust, Gillian, that 
you have come to your senses, and that your 
return to this house implies anew and grow- 
ing feeling of wifely duty.” 

Gillian, with her eyes fixed upon his face, 
touched Dora lightly on the head. 

“Go with Barby, my darling. You are 
safe with her.” 

“Aye, that she is,” said Barbara, “but 
don’t stay with him alone. Let me be 
by.” 

“There is nothing to fear,” said Gillian. 
“Go, leave us, but remain at hand. In a 
little while this gentleman will be gone, and 
I shall be again mistress in my own house.” 

“My dear Gillian ,” said O’ Mara, with 
a laugh, when they were alone together. 


THE LAST MEETING. 


293 


‘‘ yon amuse me. You are j)ositively splen- 
did.” 

“What I have to say to you,” said Gil- 
lian, “can be said in a few words. Weigh 
them well, they are the last you will ever 
hear from me.” 

“ I am all attention. Let me remind you, 
however, that you talk nonsense. You said 
just now that I was about to leave this house. 
Quite a mistake. I shall remain,” — he took 
a chair and crossed his legs with an easy 
gesture — “ and if you are a sensible woman 
you will remain with me.” 

“Listen,” said Gillian. “ Last night you 
terrified me ; your very presence, the thought 
of what you might say and do, filled my 
soul with dread.” 

“Naturally. You see, I commanded the 
situation.” 

“In my terror I attempted to escape from 
you. I was weak and ill, and even as I tried 
to fly I was struck down. While I lay, 
feeble and helpless, you had my child stolen 
from me.” 

“ Quite so. I had warned you of my de- 
termination.” 

“ The news was brought to me instantly. 
Thank God! it did not kill me. No, It cured 


294 


THE WEDDING DING. 


me of all my cowardice, and gave me a 
mother’s strength.” 

“You still look a little pale,” said O’ Mara, 
sympathetically. . “ Let me get you a glass 
of wine.” 

“ I feared the world ! I feared the scandal 
and the cry ; I shrank from the public 
shame ! I thought, ‘ So long as that man 
lives there is no shelter for me, ’and no 
escape.’ ” 

“Quite right, my dear — except in sweet 
submission.” 

“I said to m^^self, ‘There is nothing he 
will not do. There is no infamy to which 
he will not subject me, rather than let me 
keep my child and live in peace.’ ” 

“ An exaggeration, I only ” 

“Hear me out. Then, while hastening 
back home, I thought it all out, and before 
I had reached that door I had made my de- 
termination.” 

“ To be reasonable? Come.” 

“To defy the world ; to defy all scandal 
and shame, and to take my stand upon the 
law itself as a free and fearless woman.” 

“A vigorous program,” said O’Mara. 
“ And how do you propose to carry it 
out ? ” 

“ Your desertion absolved me from all re- 


THE LAST MEETING. 


295 


sponsibility. Your absence for all those 
years is my justification. I was divorced by 
your own act, and in x^roof of that I will in- 
voke the law.” 

‘‘ It won’t help you, my love.” 

“We shall see. Next — you left your 
child to starve. Day by day, year by year, 
I have guarded and reared her, without one 
sign from you. By the duty so done, I had 
made my child mine only — and in that, too, 
the law shall justify me.” 

“ You really think so ? Anything more ? ” 

“ Yes. From first to last I have never had 
one penny, one crust of bread from your 
hands. You abandoned me in my poverty. 
What came to me afterward escaped you. 
It is mine — this house, with all in it, and all 
else that I possess is mine, and that also the 
law shall prove.” 

“ Try. I am here.” 

“ You will not remain another hour. You 
will go as you came.” 

“One moment!” said O’ Mara, calmly 
still. “ I will not attempt to combat your 
very primitive notions of English juris- 
prudence. I will x^ass over your insane pre- 
sumption that a husband has no right either 
in his wife’s property or in the person of his 
child. I will merely remind you, my dear 


296 


THE WEDDING RING. 


Gillian, that should you ‘ invoke the law,’ 
as you poetically describe the simple process 
of consulting the nearest solicitor, you will 
cause very unpleasant revelations.” 

“ I have thought of all that, and I am pre- 
pared. Shame cannot touch me now.” 

“I, on my side, will have an unpleasant 
duty to perform. I shall have to contend 
that one reason, and one reason only, ac- 
counted for my wife’s eccentric conduct on 
my return, that reason being connected with 
her attachment to a man who certainly 
wished to become her husband, and was pos- 
sibly her lover.” 

“You coward said Gillian. “ Well, I 
am prepared for that, too.” 

“ I shall have also to testify — very unwill- 
ingly— that this gentleman and my wife 
were alone together last night at the bottom 
of the spinney an hour after she had called 
upon him to eject her lawful husband from 
her house, an hour before she tied — the pre- 
sumption being that during that interview 
her flight was arranged, and that he was to 
follow her, meet her at some convenient 
spot, and convey her to some secluded haven 
of bliss.” 

“ Is that all you have to say?” asked Gil- 
lian. 


THE LAST MEETING. 


297 


“I — I think SO.” 

“ Then leave this house ! ” 

I shall do nothing of the kind.” 

“ You had better go quietly. If you do 
not, I will not call the law to assist me, but 
I will summon one who is prepared to take 
its place.” She moved to the open door as 
she spoke. 

Who, pray ? ” asked O’ Mara, with a sud- 
den pallor. 

“ The man whom you call my lover, and 
whom I love.” 

“Then,” said O’ Mara, fiercely “you con- 
fess it ?” 

“ Without shame, now, and without fear. 
Yes, I love him. He knows that we are 
here together. He is prepared at a sign 
from me to remove you from this house, 
which, I tell you again, is mine now. Will 
you go ? ” 

“No,” answered O’ Mara, ragingly. 

The handkerchief which Gillian had held 
in her hand during the interview fluttered 
for a moment at the door, and a few seconds 
later Sir George Yenebles and Mr. Bream 
entered the room. 

“ I see,” said O’ Mara, “ a conspiracy.” 

“Nothing of the kind,” said Bream; 


298 


THE WEDJDIEG RING. 


“ only a course of treatment which I have 
suggested.” 

“And which we are here to carry out,” 
added Yenebles. 

“You see, my friend,” said Bream, “ the 
lady was too precipitate. Had you accepted 
her generous yielding up of her possessions, 
and ceased to persecute her, you might have 
been quite comfortable. Now, the tables 
are turned.” 

“So!” said O’ Mara, “are you quite 
aware, gentlemen, what you are doing ? 
Have you calculated the consequences?” 

“We have,” said Yenebles, “and at a 
word from that lady ” 

“ That lady,” said O’Mara, with a bow in 
Gillian’s direction, “ is again to be congratu- 
lated on her champions. I put this rural 
parson aside — he is simply a pertinacious 
busybody ; but as for you, sir, who are 
simply my wife’s lover ” 

“ Be silent,” said Yenebles, “ or ” 

“I will not be silent,” cried O’Mara, with 
every symptom of outraged virtue in face 
and voice. “I am not un marl complais- 
ant^ and I do not intend to be either silenced 
or suppressed. And if I ever do vacate 
these premises my daughter, at least, shall 
accompany me.” 


THE LAST MEETING. 299 

“I claim my child, too,” said Gillian; 
“everything I possess; and I defy you to do 
your worst against me.” 

“ You !” cried 0‘Mara, “you! heathen 
and infamous ? ” 

“ That’s enough,” said George ; “out you 
go ! ” 

“ Very well,” said O’ Mara, stepping back 
out of reach of his arm. “Observe, I yield 
to force — to force only. Remember, I shall 
spare none of you now. Personally, I dis- 
like publicity, but since you put me to it, 
madam, the world shall know everything — 
yes, everything. If I fail, I shall at least 
have the pleasure of knowing that my*exist- 
ence — and I think the world will decide with 
the husband, and against the wife who pre- 
tended to be a widow and entrapped an inno- 
cent clodhox)per into a marital engagement. 
It will be a cause celehre. I shall conquer, 
and society will be amused. Sir, I salute 
you. Monsieur Busybody, Mr. Cantwell, Mr. 
Facing Both Ways, your servant. Madame 
la soi-disante widow, au revoir ! ” 

He swept a semi-circle of bows and lounged 
easily toward the open French window. 
But suddenly he stopped, with uplifted 
hands of helpless panic. 


300 


THE WEDDING RING. 


‘‘ Keep liim back ! ” he cried, ‘‘keep him 
from me ! ” 

A shadow darkened the sunlight. Jake 
Owen, with dilated eyes, stood there, glaring 
at O’ Mara. The gleam of steel in his hand 
warned onlookers of his intent ; but before 
a foot could move Jake sprang, the knife 
flashed in the air, and O’ Mara fell, grovel- 
ing to the floor. Bream leapt on him and 
wrenched the knife from his hand, 

“Back, you madman! Give me the 
knife.” 

“Aye, take it parson,” said Jake, “I’ve 
done what I came to do.” 

“Good God!” cried Bream, sinking on 
one knee beside O’ Mara, who had writhed 
over on his face, “he's dead.” 

“ Bead ! ” cried Gillian, “ Murdered ! ” 

“ Murdered,” said Jake, still with his eyes 
on O’ Mara’s figure at his feet. “No, fori 
killed him ! He killed my Jess, and it’s 
only life for life.” 


THE END. 


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